


It all tastes  the same in the dark.

by orphan_account



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF, Call Me By Your Name - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Boys In Love, Car Sex, Early 90's, Homophobia, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Mutual Pining, Queer Themes, Rimming, Shower Sex, They swear a lot and smoke way too many cigarettes, Timmy dresses like a girl
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-03
Updated: 2020-07-15
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:22:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 75,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25042339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: “And do you not like that?” Timmy teases, replacing his head with his fingertips. “Do you not wanna look inside yourself— ‘cause you’re scared of what you’ll find?”“I already know.” Armie insists, sounding far too self-assured for nineteen. “I don’t need to fuck someone like you to figure out who I am.”Timmy stops for a moment, eyes open and curious. “Then what are we doing this for?”
Relationships: Timothée Chalamet/Armie Hammer
Comments: 35
Kudos: 135





	1. I.

There’s a sharp inhale, a hit, and a kaleidoscope pattern across his skull. Those fingertips feel like knives on him, but he doesn’t want them off. He feels pretty now, pretty like the boys in magazines, pretty like the boys dragged to bathrooms at parties, pretty like the boys kept pretty in secret. But he wants to be more than that.

Long, dark eyelashes tumble open and he takes the world in as he sees it. Everything is mattress, motel room, too much masquerade for such a simple lie; he knows that they’re lying, because they’re still breathing, and he knows what it means to live like this.

Getting high has never been a necessary requirement just a due practice. Boys often say they like the way he looks in the smoke, and Timmy’s now lived long enough to translate it. That’s what boys say when they come up enough to come down again, when everything’s cloud, and through that they have to force themselves to see clearly, when they’re high enough not to pretend, or when they’re pretending to be high enough. That’s when the boys call him pretty. 

And Timmy likes it. Timmy always likes it. But it’s not a question of liking it, it’s just a question of knowing, of listening, of winding his fingers over skin, of touching, of prising a boy open like a box and spilling all of his secrets onto the sheets. Sometimes he thinks he ought to be paid for this, for really getting inside of a person, as tight and closed off as a locked door, and letting them loose, letting them go easily. He just hates the connotations that come with money, with everything. He doesn’t want to be cheap, he wants to be fucking priceless. 

He wants to be glassed eyes, he wants to be sweat-stained thighs, he wants to be questions with no conclusions, he wants to be more than just motel rooms and toilets at parties, and he’s working his hands all over this boy’s body and he still hasn’t said anything yet.

Timmy opens his eyes.

The boy’s gaze flutters down too. They find each other between glances, between breath heavy like a sickness; everything is weight, everything is magnetism, everything is scent, and he cannot let go of it.

Armie. He remembers. Armie is what his name was. And everything is still, not frozen, but put into place properly. Armie, he thinks with his mouth, but still, the words don’t quite want to come out. 

And then Armie’s hands fall on him, resting on his thighs, warm and burning with more than just the temperature. Timmy wonders if this is it, when another straight boy calls him pretty, and a fire lights a spark, and a spark lights a fuse. But Armie just opens his eyes real wide like two fucking suns and burns the distance between them down into nothing.

He kisses Timmy, which is not what the boys usually do or at least initiate, but Timmy takes what he can get, and what he can get from Armie, is tongue and teeth, and skin and sweat, and he’s in his lap now, with his arms wrapped around Armie’s neck, fingertips finding hair, nose finding breath, but still never enough, never enough, until Armie’s hands rise slowly, soft on his lower back, skin against skin, and that’s when he can’t breathe entirely.

Timmy pulls back, like the aftermath of an explosion; his eyes are riled and wide. Armie’s are darker than midnight, with the allure of trouble set deep and unmatchable within them. Timmy had known this was a bad idea before they’d even reached the motel room.

“You’re fucking obscene.” Armie says, with charm, with affection. Timmy’s heard those words before, but never quite like that.

He raises an eyebrow, inclines forward, ready to take what he usually waits to be given. There’s another wavelength here, vibrations lost between them, a boy talking to him in gestures and glances, a boy talking of the world and all of its secrets, but a boy that he doesn’t yet know him well enough to hear it.

“You like it?” Timmy asks him, brushing his hair back from his face, catching his breath, though everything feels like it’s only just getting started.

Armie snorts, hand-wound back around Timmy’s back. “It’s not a question of liking it. You’re the way you are, and I’m here. Does that say something?”

“Not enough.” Timmy decides suddenly, trying to look into Armie’s eyes like two twin crystal balls, like ocean waves, but every time he comes up for air, he comes up with nothing.

“Well then,” Armie lights a smile with a spark, “You’re just going to have to start listening.” He pulls their bodies closer, and Timmy thinks for a moment that he’s taking charge, but Armie lets go again, lets them both fall limp and empty and open, chests expanding, but never quite getting enough air in.

“Listen how?” Timmy demands, fingers locked around Armie’s neck, peering, asking, always desperate. “You’re saying fucking nothing.”

Armie presses his mouth to Timmy’s jaw. “If you’re just listening for the things people want you to hear, then you’re doing it all fucking wrong.”

And Armie makes him make noises, just like that, with his mouth all over his jaw, and Timmy’s eyes roll back in his skull of their own accord — it’s not feeling that he’s necessarily driven crazy by, but the tension surrounding it, but what it all means. Then only as he catches his breath, does he think that knows what Armie might mean when he tells him he’s not listening.

He wants to hear Armie squirm too, after all, he thinks that must be what this is all about at the end of it — taking a man built up like a statue, like a king, like a God, and taking him apart into little pieces, categorizing and keeping him. It makes Timmy feel powerful more than pretty, though it also makes him feel like he’s got deep underlying psychological issues.

Armie looks at him, all blissed out with a lazy grin, and gets his hands back all over him. But Timmy decides that it’s his turn to use his mouth.

“You’re fucking crazy.” Armie tells him what he already knows, fingertips tangled in his hair, Timmy sees the world between his knees and thinks only of conquering it. Timmy narrows his eyes, sitting back on his heels. “What did you expect was gonna happen when I took you back here?”

Armie throws a smirk, fighting through the flush that cripples him, when for a moment he wakes up beyond the high of both drugs and sex, and realizes just who he is and what he’s doing here with a boy like this.

“I didn’t expect you were gonna be such a girl about it.” Armie teases, tugging at Timmy’s hair, pulling his head back, so he has to look up at him properly.

“No?” Timmy cocks his head to the side. “Weird that, ‘cause that’s what boys like you usually like.”

Armie snorts, letting go of Timmy’s hair. “What’s a boy like me then? What do I usually like?” He asks, leaning back, and letting his legs shift to envelop Timmy’s body in his thighs. 

Timmy stares straight up at him, curls falling scattered from where Armie had yanked them, dark eye makeup slick and smudged with sweat. Armie’s breath hitches in his throat and Timmy thinks for a second that this boy wants to ruin him, as much as he wants to ruin himself, but then Armie catches him off guard again.

“‘Cause that’s your thing, isn’t it? I listen, you know, when they talk, ‘cause boys talk, even the one you think don’t even have fucking brains, but they talk, maybe not with words, or not fully with words, but they talk, and some nights, when everyone’s high enough, when even the air is fucking intoxicated, they start to talk about you.”

Timmy’s eyes blow wide. “What do they say?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Armie snorts, smiling down at him. “I just wanna know, whether you like it like that, or just pretend. I wanna know how much of this is an act.”

Timmy frowns. He rests his head against Armie’s thigh. “I thought this was about you.” Armie smiles. “Do people usually treat you like a mirror when they fuck you?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Timmy thinks he could figure it out, but he’s not sure that he wants to.

“All about them. You’re just a mirror for them to see into themselves with.” Armie sighs, easing Timmy’s head off his thigh.

“And do you not like that?” Timmy teases, replacing his head with his fingertips. “Do you not wanna look inside yourself— ‘cause you’re scared of what you’ll find?”

“I already know.” Armie insists, sounding far too self-assured for nineteen. “I don’t need to fuck someone like you to figure out who I am.”

Timmy stops for a moment, eyes open and curious. “Then what are we doing this for?”

“I wanna know who you are.” Armie tells him and gets his hands back in Timmy’s hair. “So you don’t have to sit pretty on your knees pretending like you’re just another girl, like I’m some fucked up guy who’s hoping when he cums he won’t be able to tell the difference. I know what this means and I know what I came and found you for.”

  
-

  
There’s a bar tucked in the back of an alleyway downtown, it’s the kind of street where you’re breathing in more whiskey scent and neon light than oxygen. The bar’s called ‘Europa’, after the moon. Timmy sometimes thinks of it as a second home. 

Inside everything’s dirt, and he thinks half of the room must be wearing the exact same outfit. He finds no integrity in any of this, and yet he still keeps coming back. Maybe he just likes the way it feels familiar; the bartender’s tired enough of hearing the same flirtations by now just to listen the first time he asks nicely. Timmy has learned a lot about getting his own way and thinks of it almost like a challenge.

He thinks everything is a little still and boring tonight, just conversation and static sounds until the live band starts, and he thinks they’re a little too poppy for this kind of scene, though Timmy’s not sure that he quite fits in here either. Their singer’s pretty, but she can only hit two or three notes, and maybe that’s what punk’s supposed to be, all feral and visceral, but Timmy doesn’t think it's very musical, but even if he wants to feel crazy about it, he at least thinks there should be something pleasant about it. All drag without high, and then days of fucking comedown. That’s what he calls it.

He remembers the band from last week — more than he remembers the guy he came here with — he didn’t quite get their name, but they were louder, harsher, everything, stubborn and explosive, but with this girl on vocals who couldn’t have been more than about five foot three, voice all strung out scratchy saccharine, and Timmy thought that was heaven, or at least who tonight’s band are trying to be. Failing that, they need a better singer, but he’s not about to tell them that, because he’s not entitled enough to think that anybody really owes him anything. He just gets another drink and slides on into the backroom.

He’d been looking to find a friend here, though he soon realizes that even if she was here, she’d be just another face, all tongue and making her own music. It’s all low light and musk back here, and he lights himself a cigarette, settling down into the plush leather, and tipping back what remains of his drink. If not her, then he’d been at least looking to find someone. 

He sighs, feeling strange and empty, and watches as the room breathes, like it’s got its own soul. And then he hears laughter and muffled applause, and the guitars in the background fade into footsteps, and the music turns up again, but this time just from the radio, louder, but still not loud enough. Timmy wants to bury himself inside a headache and never come down. He wants something a little sweeter, but he’s trying to stay sane this time, at least for the weekend.

There everything goes, footsteps and silhouettes, laughter, the smoke turns people into ghosts — this is a world where close friends become strangers and strangers become close friends, and that’s what Timmy likes about it. The danger, the fear, the wide eyes, spread thighs, red like blood, red like promises, red enough to bruise. He takes a drag of his cigarette, and the band pool on through into the backroom.

He recognizes the singer first, by virtue of her being the only girl in the group, she’s piling her ash blonde hair up into a bun and struggling to work her way through a cigarette, Timmy only then realizes how young she looks. He’s intrigued, suddenly, leaning forward, watching the figures around the room disperse, watching the same girls use the same lines, watching different boys turn out the same smiles.

But he watches her, blonde hair girl, who can’t really sing, until she settles into a booth, and another silhouette gets in his eye-line. Part of him wants to know her, or at least who she is and what she’s doing here, but he knows the blunt of it comes down to her youth, how young she looks, how much she shouldn’t be here, how much they all shouldn’t be here. But then there’s a silhouette, looming over him, another man with a question, and Timmy has to become another boy who will never run out of his answers.

“Got a light?” His tone is softer than Timmy expected, but his eyes are dark and unreadable, especially obscured by the smoke.

Timmy shrugs and slides his lighter across the glass coffee table. The man, barely older but a man at all, sits right down beside him, getting his long, dirty fingers tight around Timmy’s lighter, cupped around a cigarette in his mouth. Timmy turns and watches him for as long as he feels like he’s allowed.

“You were in that band.” Timmy says suddenly, turning to face the side, in an attempt to put a little space between them.

“Mm.” He nods, sliding Timmy’s lighter back down onto the table. Timmy suddenly notices the opened bottle of beer he’d brought with him and pushed precariously close to Timmy’s own drink. Timmy sighs. This is going to be one of those nights.

“Drums.” He says, taking a drag of his cigarette. “I’m Armie.”

“Timmy.”

“Oh, I know who you are.” Armie narrows his eyes at him.

“You do?” Timmy frowns, reaching for his drink. Armie grins. “People talk. Even with secrets.”

“Mm?” Timmy arches his eyebrows. “And is that what I am? A secret?” Armie nods, smirking as he moves a little closer to him.

“People usually just buy me a drink and call me pretty, you know?”

“I can do that if you want.” Armie shrugs, reaching up to brush Timmy’s hair behind his ear. “Just thought maybe you were tired of it.”

“Yeah.” Timmy admits, before he can stop himself.

“You wanna go get high somewhere?” Armie asks, cutting to the chase, downing his bottle of beer. Timmy’s stomach flips, and he gets this instinctual feeling, like when everything’s screaming at him, this is wrong, this is trouble, and he turns his head off to the noise, but this time it’s the same feeling, the same ache, but no warning, just static.

“Somewhere...” Timmy catches his breath. “Somewhere like a motel room?” He tries his luck. Armie rolls his eyes. “What do you think, Timmy? What do you think I want?”

Timmy manages a small smile, but finds himself overwhelmed by the feeling that with Armie, he just doesn’t know at all.

-

“I think you’re fucking stupid.” Timmy says, with as much bite as he’s able.

Armie fumbles with a grin, tugging on Timmy’s curls. “Wouldn’t you like that? Someone who wants to know you, to have you, as you are, not just as some puppet for a fantasy?”

Timmy sighs. “I make a good puppet.”

“And you’re even scared...” Armie marvels, smiling for a moment. “I didn’t think it was like that.”

“I think you’re trying to liberate,” Timmy says, with a hand on Armie’s belt, “Someone who doesn’t want to be liberated.”

“I think you’re confusing,” Armie says, with a hand-tight in Timmy’s hair, “Liberation with kindness.”

“I’m not scared.” Timmy tells him, pulling Armie’s jeans down his thighs. “I’m not scared of anything.”

Armie laughs and gets a hand down over the back of Timmy’s neck. “You are.” He pulls Timmy’s hair and forces him to look up at him, all wide-eyed and terrified. “You’re scared of what it really means if you let me fuck you without any lies. I think you think that if you let yourself, fucking let everyone else, pretend you’re a girl, then it’s different somehow.”

Timmy doesn’t say anything. He just stares up at Armie and waits for the answers.

“And is it?” Armie asks, letting go of Timmy’s hair. “Different? Like this? With me?”

“Other boys...” Timmy begins, heaving out a sigh, “Don’t usually want to talk so much, don’t usually want to ask me so many questions, other boys just want,” He reaches forward, a hand to Armie’s boxers, “This.”

Armie bites back a moan. “And I want that too.” “Mm.” Timmy nods, teasing with his fingertips. “Yeah, you do.” “But not on the same terms as everyone else.” Armie chokes out, meeting Timmy’s gaze again. “You’re not special” Timmy tells him suddenly. “I don’t know why you think you are.”

“But I am.” Armie insists. “‘Cause I’m sure I’m the first guy you’re gonna be with that’ll tell you he liked it on plain terms, and that he liked it because you’re a guy, and not that he can pretend in that grey area.”

“But I like the grey area.” Timmy insists.

“No.” Armie shakes his head. “I don’t think you do.” He looks down. “Whatever, come on and make me like it.”

Timmy smiles, tugging Armie’s boxers down his thighs, covering new territory first with his hands before letting everything sink in with his mouth. They feel connected at that moment, and Timmy doesn’t want to romanticize it, he’s not high enough to think optimistically, but he knows there’s truth in what Armie’s saying, even if he doesn’t want to believe it. And part of him believes it. His knees believe it when they ache beneath him, his eyes believe it when they work through heavy lids and steal glances up, up at this boy above him, breaking into heaven, just to set all of the angels free. And his ears believe it when everything is sound, and all he can make out through the static is Armie’s mouth, Armie’s hands, tug, pull, break apart, and by the end of it, Timmy thinks he’s going to be in pieces, but he isn’t, he doesn’t break, and like this is the first time, he bends.

He falls back onto his heels, and becomes too aware of the carpet burn on his skin, everything’s dizzying sensations, peaking through sober, and Armie like that, as if painted by Michelangelo, or at least, Timmy thinks he wants to frame him, exposed like that, broken and unabashed with it, eyes so dark they start to burn like suns under the low light. He wants and he wants and he wants, and Timmy doesn’t know what he wants to give him first.

Skin. Timmy gets his hands on Armie’s skin, testing the waters, he knows this all, he wants to hold Armie to his claims with fervor, because this is the part when the boys forget, when he just becomes a part of the room, when he was a mouth, and now he’s nothing.

Skin. Timmy gets his hands on Armie’s skin, on his thighs, touching, resting, and Armie doesn’t tell him to move, to stop touching him, Armie just looks down and breathes Timmy in like vapor. His hair’s messy and wild, his forehead stained with sweat, but Timmy sees something divine in him, even if just for a moment.

Armie catches his breath, and slots his thoughts back into loop with common sense again. He sits back on the bed, and moves like he’s going to lean into his jacket and light himself a cigarette, and call the evening done and gone and over with, before ushering Timmy out of the motel room and asking him to forget his name. But he doesn’t. He doesn’t.

He sits back on the bed, and moves like he’s going to light himself a cigarette, but ushers Timmy closer. “Come here.” He says, voice like velvet, and Timmy has no choice but to follow him.

Armie sits Timmy in his lap and gets his mouth back all over him. It’s different this time when his hands go wandering, they don’t reach for his hair, but start going down. The whole world starts going down. Timmy thinks the sky’s falling, and the stars with it too, but Armie’s hand is warm and hot like summer and everything he was ever told to keep a secret.

“Tell me how you want it.” Armie whispers into his ear, and for the first time, Timmy feels no shame in it.

“Fucking dirty.” He says, trying to meet Armie’s eyes, trying to watch them go wild again.

“Mm.” Armie makes Timmy gasp. “I thought so.”

And everything is teeth and nails, bruises, hickeys, mouth and hands, neck, chest, and everywhere. Timmy thinks he starts spinning when he lets go, or at least the room does, and he feels high like he’s drugged up, the kind of high he wants to wallow in, but there’s this beautiful fucking boy sitting him on his lap and watching him lose his mind. Timmy calls it heaven and digs his fingernails into the soft skin of Armie’s thigh.

Armie covers Timmy’s hand with his own, pressing down on Timmy’s fingertips until they settle soft and limp against Armie’s thigh. “Better?” He asks.

Timmy tries to find something to say, anything at all. But Armie just smiles at him like he can see into his soul, or read his mind, and lets the matter settled.

“Tell me how you liked it.” Armie suggests, letting Timmy off his lap, and leaning again like he’s moving to find a cigarette. This time he does find a cigarette, but unlike the others, he stays.

“I’m not going to sit here and stroke your ego.” Timmy protests, brushing his hair back. Part of him almost wants Armie gone, so in the sudden gravity of the comedown, he can feel less exposed, less self-conscious about everything.

Armie snorts, before looking up at Timmy. “You’re gorgeous.” He says suddenly, and offers Timmy a cigarette.

Timmy blushes and looks down like he doesn’t know what to do with his hands. “I don’t owe you anything.” He says suddenly.

“I know.” Armie nods to him, and tosses him a lighter.

“And your band was shit by the way.” Timmy says again, just for the sake of saying it, just for the sake of finding something to build a wall back up between them with.

Armie grins. “Fair enough.”

“You need a better singer.” Timmy tells him. “Or someone who can teach her how to hit more than two notes.”

Armie snorts. “And you’d know, would you?”

“Oh yeah.” Timmy leans forward. “Thought you said you already know everything about me?”

Armie flushes. “I never said everything.”

“I sing.” Timmy says, almost absent-mindedly. “And my band’s better than yours, I’m saying that objectively. Some guy wanted to put us on the cover of his magazine.”

“Mm.” Armie nods. “Wanted to? And why didn’t he?” Timmy flushes, looking away. “Other commitments.”

“Mm.” Armie nods again. “You playing anywhere soon? I’ll check it out, see how many notes you can hit.”

“Bring your singer.” Timmy suggests. “Maybe she can get a few tips.” Armie smirks. “What about it being just me and you?”

“Just me and you and a whole room full of people?” Timmy rolls his eyes. “Yeah, Armie, sounds about right.”

“Sounds about perfect.” Armie gets a hand in Timmy’s hair again. “You’ll find me in the crowd.”

“Mm.” Timmy sounds unconvinced, but lets Armie kiss him all the same — by this point in the night, everything feels meaningless either way.

Armie gets to his feet. “I’ve gotta go, though, see you around.”

And Timmy stares at the motel room door, for minutes even after it’s been closed. He burns his cigarette down to a stump, and thinks about music, about drugs, even about sex — he just needs it all to feel loud again, but Armie is in his head like static, and he just can’t get him out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I DO NOT OWN THIS STORY. 
> 
> This is an adaptation from an original work posted by Babyspiders on Wattpad, all credit to her ( and before anyone comes after me. It was allowed). If you want to go check her work. She also has a poetry Instagram acc:
> 
> https://www.instagram.com/futile.devicez/
> 
> She is one of my all time favorite fanfic writers. I can't tell you enough how much I ADORE this story and her writing in general.  
> I did this for my enjoyment. I just really wanted to see Armie and Timmy's characters in this setting. Then I wanted more people to know this beautiful queer story. I'm aware comments are rewarding for writers, and since I did not write this I do not deserve them (though I still want to know what you think of it). I'll let them on for now and see what you think would be best.
> 
> Timmy Glitter Image Source: https://mypinkcactus.tumblr.com/post/185882787696/in-color-because-why-not


	2. II.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song: Deadlines (Hostile) by Car Seat Headrest

Timmy’s sober and packed into the backroom of a small venue called ‘The Dolphin’ with about six other people, only three of which are his actual bandmates. There’s a girl with lips dark like cherries, who keeps staring at him, when she thinks no one else is noticing — she either fancies him or she’s trying to figure out whether or not he’s actually female.

And he thinks she’s got a run for her money, when he catches himself in the big mirror, with makeup on his face. He looks like he’s being paid to look pretty, all long dark eyelashes, lip gloss, hair done, he looks like he’s asking to get knocked out.

“...Yeah, and Timmy looks like a slut, as usual.” He only tunes back into the hum of conversation when he hears his name.

“Mm?” He shoots his guitarist the finger, before lighting himself a cigarette.

“I never said it wasn’t a compliment.” He calls back, sitting down beside the girl with the lips like cherries, who’s staring at him more than ever before.

“Yeah,” The girl starts talking now, “We’ve got the same shoes.” She kicks her boots out, tall, black, and platform.

Timmy catches her eye in the mirror and tries to figure her out a little bit.

“Yeah, well at least you’re wearing a skirt. Unlike him.” Their guitarist shrugs, tipping back a bottle of beer.

“It’s called a t-shirt dress.” She explains.

“Yeah, well, I don’t wanna see his arse in my face while I’m playing, thanks.” He makes a face, sliding his arm around the girl’s shoulders.

“Then don’t look.” Timmy says. “Ansel, no one says you have to.”

“Give us no choice, mate.” Another voice, this one unfamiliar. “Looking like that.”

And laughter, a hurricane of laughter, and Timmy not abashed but angered, staring defiantly at his reflection, catching only the eye of the girl untucking herself from Ansel’s side.

“You think he’s pretty tonight and you’re scared of what it means.” She smiles, staring Timmy down in the mirror. Suddenly, Timmy thinks of Armie, of last week, of all his talk, of his hands, of headaches, he’s getting headaches and static in the brain, and the room fills with laughter only to suddenly stop.

Ansel’s got a handful of her hair and a dark leer in his eyes like he means it, and Timmy sinks into the warmth of his reflection, trying to escape the room. Everything rises until nothing can ever sink again; he wants to meet someone’s gaze, anyone’s, but the room is transfixed, waiting, watching, praying.

“Don’t say shit like that.” He cuts through the silence, severing the tension.

She gasps as he lets go of her hair, and pushes her body to the side to storm off out of the room. Timmy’s stomach lurches inside of his chest.

“Fucking hell...” There’s a communal buzz of whispers, and the click of a lighter somewhere.

“I mean fuck, we need a guitarist.” And their drummer, looking over the girl like she was just a crack in the paint, another piece of the wall.

“He’ll be back.” Someone else promises, “Just gone to smoke, clear his head, punch something, I don’t know.”

Timmy looks back over his reflection and meets her eyes; she looks lost and terrified in the dressing room mirror. He ushers her over with his eyes. He doesn’t think she belongs here, not anymore; he’s not sure she ever even did.

She slides herself onto the counter beneath the mirror, and turns to look up at Timmy, obstructing his gaze, so he’s unable to stare meaninglessly at his own reflection. He meets her eyes.

“That was fucked.” She says, very quietly.

“I know.” Timmy nods, even quieter.

“It’s your band too, isn’t it?” She frowns. “Can’t you say something, do something?”

Timmy bites his nails and only wishes he could.

“Timmy, maybe...” There’s a hand on his shoulder suddenly, and he turns to see their drummer, Giullian, looking over him with a stomach lurching kind of hesitant curiosity.

“Maybe... lose the dress for tonight... wear something else.” He suggests, trying to ease his words out with a smile. “Just not to start shit—“

“I’m sorry—“ Timmy yells out before he can stop himself. “But if he can’t handle seeing my bare fucking thighs, then that’s his problem—“

Giullian sighs. “Well yeah, but this, and the—“

“He’s pissed about the magazine too.” Another voice, all in his head, and Timmy feels like he can’t breathe suddenly.

“Well, that’s not my fucking fault either!” He screams, pulling away from the mirror and turning to face his bandmates, as the other few guys filter out of the room, calling it more trouble than it’s worth.

“It’s not my fault.” Timmy says, choked on breath. “That some shitty magazine doesn’t want a guy like me on the cover, that’s fucked, and you guys should know that, you should support that — you should be on my side.”

“No.” Giuliang frowns. “We should be on the cover of the magazine, and we’re not—“ “Can’t you dress like a guy for once in your life, Timmy?”

“No, because it’s not just once, it’s every time you ask, every time that makes you happy, and I’m not putting some fake image of myself out for the world to see, because this is who I am, I like dressing like this, whether the fuck it offends you or not, and it’s something that makes you think, think about me, think about us— I’m not a bad thing for this band.”

“Yeah...” Ansel appears again in the doorway, suitably calmer, and somewhat out of breath.

Timmy stares him down, trying to translate everything racing through his head into conceptualized emotion. “There’s not just one magazine in the world, you know, and someone—“

“But there’s not just one magazine in the world that doesn’t want someone like you on the cover.” Ansel sighs, stubbing out his cigarette. “And I know that hurts to hear, but you know it already, don’t you, deep down? Timmy, you’re smart, you know how the world works.”

“Sersh, love—“ Ansel turns to the girl beside Timmy.

“No.” She says. “I don’t wanna hear it, and I want you to treat him better as well.” She offers a sympathetic look to Timmy, before brushing past Ansel and barging out of the door.

Timmy suddenly feels alone, with three sets of eyes on him, trying to figure out what he’ll make of himself, and how best they might be able to make that in their own image.

“We’re on soon.” There’s a glance to the clock and the stubbing out of a cigarette.

“We’ll talk after.” Ansel promises, his voice strangely soft and distant.

Timmy doesn’t have to wait to know what’ll come of it, what’ll come of any of this. He takes a beer from the side, and downs as much of it as he can. He’s there then, buzzing, burning, trying to make a God of himself in neon lights, before the floodgates break out.

The venue is small, but harder to make out under the blanket of fog and darkness that rests over the crowd, so Timmy lets himself pretend, and lights the moment like a funeral pyre; he wants to see everything in flames.

The chatter and noise burns out as he reaches centerstage, unhooking the microphone. He takes a moment just to look out across the crowd, to take in the sea of faces, to turn something out of the darkness, to burn like a spark.

“Hello...” He drags that first word out like a wave, already trying to perform, because everything then on is an act. “We’re Slowdown, and I’m Timothée, you can call me Timmy for tonight, if you want?” He turns his voice, up and soft, then down and sultry, everything’s about expression, and everything about expression is really about sex.

“We’re gonna play some songs, come find me backstage later if you liked them.” He burns out his smile into a smirk, and lets himself feel reborn. “Okay, this one’s about drugs, and sex, and the kind of high you get right before you’re burning out...” Timmy swallows, looking briefly over his shoulder. “And friends.” He says. “It’s also about friends.”

Everything goes away when Timmy starts playing, when he gets his fingertips curled in around guitar strings enough to bite, when everything is voice and mic, sound and expression, performance and art, riding the high of a tsunami wave that threatens never to collapse. He powers through the first song, letting the music consume him completely, forgetting about before, about the way everyone had looked at him, at what it had meant, because he’d known even then. He powers through the first song, and burns on right into the second, smirking down the microphone as he scopes out the crowd.

He gets to the penultimate song on their setlist before Timmy notices him, and something kicks back his brain like stone cold sober flashes of skin and truth through a sultry blanket of delirium. He’s at the back of the crowd, drink in hand, hair swept up away from his face, but he’s there and he’s watching him, and they lock eyes.

Timmy swallows, stammering over the finishing chorus, before taking a breath and trying to pull his mind in around their final song. Suddenly his mind is buzzing again, Armie, watching, expectant, hopeful. But Timmy wants to be cynical of him, like Timmy wants to be cynical of Ansel, and his bandmates, and what they really want to say to him, and what they will say to him, when he finally goes backstage and everything crashes down like a balloon. He’s just not sure he can really manage it; he’s not sure he can really manage any of this.

He wants to tell Armie to stay, to wait, to be there, after he returns from backstage, to be there after his whole world comes crashing down, so he can have someone to tear into pretty little pieces.

“This is our last song.” Timmy says, a little drawn out, a little breathless. “But wait around a while after, I’ll come back out, and I’m sure all of you want to buy me a drink and tell me I’m pretty.” This part he says under lieu of stage performance, but in heart says it directly to Armie, their eyes locked tight onto each other’s.

Armie smirks at him, tipping back his drink.

Timmy lets go of everything and bursts into their final song.

-

“That was fucking good.” Aaron says as they traipse off stage, and Timmy only nods vaguely, because he can feel Ansel’s gaze burning into his skull, and he knows him well enough to already know just what that means.

He gets back into the dressing room and lights himself a cigarette, hovering by the mirror and trying to stare out his reflection. He looks wrecked now, with sweat pressed to his forehead, hair sticking up at all angles, and his makeup smudged in several different places. He doesn’t think to fix though; he thinks he kind of likes it, he thinks in a strange way, it’s kind of hot. He wonders what Armie thinks; he wonders if he’s ever going to find out.

“Timmy.” Ansel finally says, letting the door swing shut behind the two of them. He waits for Timmy to turn, but when he doesn’t, he settles instead, for talking to his reflection.

“I just don’t think it’s fair, on any of us.” He sighs, watching Timmy, for signs of an argument, for signs of resistance.

Timmy says nothing at all.

“The magazine...” Ansel trails off. “We’re a good fucking band and we should have been on that magazine and— and we shouldn’t have to blame you for it. It’s not fair on us and it’s not fair on you.”

Timmy just stares off blankly into the corner of the room; he’d already known where this was going, but that doesn’t make it any easier.

“And earlier.” He sighs. “That’s not fair on you, because you can wear what you want, and that’s your right as a fucking human being, and you say all about what it means for you and the band, and how it makes people look and question, and just maybe...” Ansel frowns. “Maybe we don’t wanna be that kind of band.”

“What?” Timmy snorts. “A band that people look at? That people listen to? That people care about?”

“No, a band that people look at _like that.”_ Ansel lights himself a cigarette. “You know what I mean. You know how people look at you. Like their eyes are asking questions. We don’t wanna be questions, we just wanna be answers.”

“That’s such a pretentious reason for kicking someone out of a band.” Timmy says and kicks the chair. “Just say it...” He says suddenly, eyes wild. “You fancy me a bit sometimes, and you just can’t fucking deal with it—“

 _”_ Timmy _.”_ Ansel pushes his fist, hard against the wall, no with enough force to break the plaster, but enough to make a sound.

Timmy swallows, looking down. “Well, good luck.” He says, his hands shaking a little. “Good luck finding someone else that can write you fucking songs and put up with your shit—“

“We’re keeping our songs.” Ansel narrows his eyes.

“I fucking wrote them.” Timmy laughs. “You gonna find someone fucking cookie cutter, clean, no questions, just answers, sound and normal, to sing my fucking songs about going mad and falling in love with everything that’s bad for me, about being queer and being fucking angry— you’re gonna get— no, no one you’d want in this band can sing these songs.” Timmy shakes his head.

“Then we’ll write new ones.” Ansel smiles, as if unbothered. “Take your songs, I suppose. But what band can you play them with? What band are gonna want you, Timmy? ‘Cause here’s a secret, mate, all bands want to be on the covers of magazines, and they’re gonna take and cut and spit the fuck out whoever and whatever they have to so they can get there.”

Timmy sighs, taking Ansel in for what he hopes might be the last time. “You think everyone in this world is gonna stay the same.” He says, making a move to the door. “And that’s where you’re wrong. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but soon, eventually, people are gonna start wanting bands that start asking questions, people like me on magazines, and where are you going to be? Pulling girls’ hair in a shitty dressing room because you don’t like the implications of being even remotely different. Have a nice fucking life, Ansel.”

Timmy makes it to the bathroom before he starts crying.

He didn’t even think to process whether anyone else was inside before he threw himself against the wall and buried his face in his hands. Fuck. He thinks, make up smudging against his palms and cheeks. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. He thinks. Because part of him knows that Ansel’s right, that Ansel’s going to be right, for at least long enough for it to mean something. And who is he now? Without his band? Without being on stage? He’s just a poet with an ego, a guy in make up crying in the girls’ bathroom. This is what lost looks like, if anyone ever tried to find it.

“Timmy?” She says, her voice all soft and sweet. Timmy looks up, smudging his makeup. “Saoirse?” She nods, ushering him over towards the sinks. “God, are you okay?”

Timmy shrugs, bracing himself against the countertop. “I’ve been better.” He admits, looking up to his reflection. He’s got mascara streaks smudged and spiralling in all directions, messy enough to render his eyes like spider’s webs.

“Ansel?” She asks, pulling a clump of paper tissue from the dispenser, and offering it up to him. “Yeah.” Timmy sighs. “Something like that.”

“You were good tonight.” She says, as he wipes his face clean. “Like really good, like really fucking emotion, like... you’re better than those guys—“

“Well, won’t you just be fucking ecstatic to hear they’ve kicked me out.” Timmy sighs. “You don’t have to feel sorry for me,” He explains, “I’m not even sure if I feel sorry for me. I think maybe it’s a good thing. I think maybe also I’m a mess with no band and no direction, and—“

She pulls out her makeup bag and pushes it in his direction.

“Thanks.” He sighs, reaching for an eyeliner. “I think I’m gonna go get really drunk now.” He says.

Her lips hug a smile. “You wanna get really drunk with me?”

“Yeah.” Timmy says without thinking. “Yeah, fuck it, let’s.” He smudges out his eye make up, and decides he can’t be bothered with lipstick.

She smiles. “You usually turn up crying in girls’ bathrooms then?”

Timmy sighs. “Look. I turn up looking like this, trying to do my makeup in the men’s, I’m gonna get knocked the fuck out—“

“I know.” She meets his eye. “I was only teasing. Come on,” She reaches for his hand, “Let’s have some drinks.”

Everything feels nuclear, back by the bar, Timmy’s alive only to wait for the fallout, with Saoirse dragging him along, so she can make eyes at every man she notices and still feel protected. Timmy wonders if she’ll go back to Ansel after the end of the night, when it all comes crashing down; Timmy wonders if he could say the same for himself. He just doesn’t see how.

Part of him’s glad that this time there’s no easy way out, because he knows that he’d choose it in a heartbeat.

He knocks back a shot and stares out into the sea of faces, thinking of feeling something abyssal, thinking of getting down on his knees. Everything is dark eyes, room shrinking in on him; he feels like he can’t quite contain his heart inside of his chest anymore, and Saoirse is sitting there, talking not to him, not with him, but at him, while making eyes at this boy with blonde hair and a leather jacket. He looks like trouble, and Timmy knows it, because he knows the type.

He’s pouring everything he has into his cigarette, pushed down into the ashtray on the bar; he’s thinking about choking, just to feel something. He wonders when this sinking feeling will go away, and what he’ll have to do then. He supposes pick himself up again. He needs a distraction. More than just a friendly face and something strong to placate himself with. Timmy looks out to the crowd — there’s a boy out there with his name on him, a boy he put there, waiting, with eyes in the crowd, but where is he now?

Timmy sighs. He doesn’t quite want to go looking for him, but he can’t handle staying put any longer. Saoirse is inching closer to the boy who looks like trouble, and Timmy supposes it must be a sign — it’s his turn too. At the end of everything else, Timmy still wants to know what Armie thinks of him, of how he played; he feels in control on stage, putting on a show, but everything’s just fallout now, scattering and scarpering.

“I promised I’d go meet someone.” Timmy says, which is only half of a lie.

Saoirse nods. “Oh, sure.” She makes eyes again at trouble. Timmy sighs. He puts out his cigarette and goes looking.

Everything is bodies when he gets closer enough to touch. Bodies and liquor, laughter and the foul stench of sweat, girls out on their luck, boys hoping to get lucky, and the low hum of rock music in the background, coming from the speakers. Timmy doesn’t know the song, but the singer’s saying something about regret and remorse, and how bad hearts make bad choices, and Timmy thinks he feels that with every fiber of his body, but that doesn’t mean he’ll ever stop, that doesn’t mean he’ll ever start living right.

He edges towards the area of the venue that’s thick with smoke, smelling like cigarettes and musk more than sweat and pheromones. Timmy’s glad at least for the illusion of separation, of something to call respite, as he climbs over the few steps to a raised platform, where everything’s pleather and ashtrays, and these two girls locking lips like it’s war. Timmy tries to turn his eyes away, and ends up even more lost.

This is what found should feel like. He tells himself, when he locks eyes with Armie, sprawled out across pleather sofas, in the smokey haze of a back corner of a bar. But this feels dangerous, like he’s stepped into heaven through the back door. He shouldn’t be here, he tells himself, but Armie only smirks at him and pats the seat to his side.

“I was wondering when you’d turn up.” Armie says, sitting up straight against the back of seat, but letting his legs kick out over the cushions. “I was getting impatient.”

“Mm.” Timmy nods, staring out across the raised area; there’s no one else in sight, no one else beyond the fog but those girls. “Don’t you think those girls mind you staring?”

“Oh, I’m not staring.” Armie assures him. “Just gazing out absent-mindedly.” He taps his cigarette down into the ashtray slotted onto the wooden top of the backs of the seats. “Waiting for someone. That someone’s you.”

“Mm.” Timmy sighs, picking at the hem of his shirt, pulling at a thread already unravelled; he knows he’s going to make the problem worse, but he just can’t help himself.

“You were good up there.” Armie tells him, and Timmy stops fidgeting long enough to concentrate. “You look good tonight as well. Though, I suppose I don’t need to tell you that.” Armie places a hand on Timmy’s thigh, just resting. “You already know.” He asserts, looking into his eyes.

Timmy flushes and thinks back to Ansel, to every ravaging wind in this hurricane, and peels Armie’s hand off his thigh, before kicking his legs up against the coffee table.

Armie just looks at him, like he’s trying to read him all over again; Timmy doesn’t want to let him, Timmy doesn’t even want to let him get close.

“Thought you said you were gonna bring your singer.” Timmy says, folding his arms across his chest.

“Nah. That’s kinda complicated right now anyway, and I just wanted it to be me and you.” Armie takes a drag of his cigarette. “I was right about that. It felt intimate watching you, up there, on stage, you know? In a sea of like more than a hundred people, it was like just fucking me and you. Tell me you felt that too.”

“Well, I was looking at you for a reason.” Timmy makes a face. “But I’m not sure about... I don’t know. Not just you and me. That’s how I wanna feel when I’m on stage, like it’s just me and what I’m singing, and then like the good face in the crowd, the person that’s gonna get whatever I’m trying to say, just like that,” He clicks his fingers, “And it gets like that sometimes, sometimes it feels trance like, but... there was just this thing... this thing on the back of my mind, because I knew... I knew something was going to happen the second we stopped playing, and I couldn’t quiet that, and fuck, I couldn’t stop it happening either, ‘cause...”

“What?” Armie asks, leaning in closer. His face falls into a frown. “Timmy, what happened?”

“Well...” Timmy tugs out a sigh, pulling his knees up to his chest. “I’m not gonna fucking cry about it, but... my band kicked me out—“

“Why?” Armie jolts up, looking on in disbelief. “You were the fucking... _life_ of that band. All these boring guys behind you like immobile on instruments, and you’re there giving the crowd your fucking heart and letting them swallow it.”

Timmy snorts. “Bit over dramatic there, Armie.” “No, because I was in that crowd,” Armie gestures passionately with his cigarette, “And I know what I felt.”

“Something about...” Timmy drags out a sigh. “It’s kind of messy, I guess, but there’s this guy, Ansel, who has a problem with me, and I think most of that problem is his own internalized homophobia, like he kinda fancies me when I’m looking like this, but just dealing with that thought, that’s fucking killing him. So off I go, I guess.” Timmy rolls his eyes.

“You really fucking know how to pick them, don’t you?” Armie shakes his head. “I’m starting to think, you’ve got a thing for straight guys, the guys that are going to reject you.” He turns to Timmy. “You like making people want you, even when they don’t want to.”

Timmy sighs, turning to Armie, resting his cheek in the palm of his hands. “Maybe I just want something exciting.”

Armie stubs out his cigarette. “Am I not exciting enough?”

“You’re so _safe.”_ Timmy tells him, and with real warmth in his eyes when he says it. “You’re so... like nothing you’d want to do would hurt me.”

“And you want that?” Armie frowns. “Some asshole who’s going to hurt you? What kind of issues —“

“Armie.” Timmy sighs. “I don’t like being hurt, I just like the... the feeling when you feel like everything’s gone to shit, but then it’s getting good again, the risk, the adrenaline of it all, like screaming at each other and then fucking, and how that’s always the best sex, but I’m not just on about the best sex, I’m on about how it fucking feels in your heart. Exciting. It feels like it means everything.”

Armie crooks his head to one side. “You’ve got a very toxic view of relationships.” “I guess.” Timmy shrugs. “I just get bored easily.”

“There are other ways to feel excited.”Armie tells him and narrows his eyes. “Anyway, funny that you don’t have a band anymore, ‘cause we might not have a singer for much longer.”

“Why?” Timmy sits up suddenly. “Are you kicking her out for being terrible and uninspiring?”

Armie snorts. “No, not quite, she’s... Will, our guitarist’s girlfriend, and that’s... going very swiftly south, so...”

“How come she gets kicked out not him?” Timmy asks, teasing. “That’s not very feminist.”

“Yeah, ‘cause you’re right, ‘cause she’s kinda shitty and uninspiring, and he’s at least decent.” Armie sighs. “Also we’re all friends, me, Will, and Nick, it’s always been that we’ve needed singers, and Will started dating a girl who at least had the confidence to claim she could sing, and... I mean... yeah, before that some other girl that I can barely even remember what happened there, but, yeah.”

“You guys were good on instruments.” Timmy says, remembering. “Get someone like me on vocals, could maybe even be a proper good band, with some proper good songs and everything.”

Armie snorts. “Yeah, maybe, don’t be too modest about it.” Timmy grins, moving a little closer to Armie.“But I mean...” Armie catches his breath. “We’ve not even kicked Sophie out yet. They might get back together. There’s still all that, and...”

“And then I guess I’ve gotta find another group of assholes to play fucking guitar with.” Timmy smiles, sitting back and watching Armie for a moment.

“I’ll put in a word.” Armie says. “I’ll mention you. I’m sure they’ll know who you are, you’re pretty fucking infamous.”

“Yeah, and they’ll think,” Timmy makes a face, “That one idiot going around in skirts and make up that means we’re never gonna get any serious traditional press, yeah, we’ll fucking have him.”

“You’ve got a narrow view of the world, Timmy, you know?” Armie says, softly. “Just because you get a decent amount of homophobic assholes, it doesn’t mean everyone in the world is homophobic—“

“It fucking feels like it, though.” Timmy laughs in his face. “Timmy.” Armie tells him, reaching for his thigh again. “I know.” Timmy sighs.

“But it’s different when there’s talent and there’s money, and there’s some fucking asshole in charge of a magazine and he knows the risk of putting you on a magazine, but maybe he sees that reward, because you’re fucking talented, and maybe he thinks all fucked like you do, and maybe he thinks, I love the risk of everything, just because it makes the reward feel so much better.”

“You believe in me?” Timmy asks him. “More than just saying shit because you think I’m pretty.” His frown deepens. “Do you actually...” He cuts himself off.

Armie smirks. “Don’t think you know how every person in this world thinks, just because you’ve seen a lot, it doesn’t mean you’ll ever see everything.”

Timmy reaches forward and slots his hand in Armie’s hair. “I could really fucking kiss you right now, and I’m gonna say it ‘cause I’m drunk and ‘cause you’re being nice to me, but it’s not, it’s...” Timmy swallows and shakes his head.

Armie kisses him.  
  
-

Everything feels warm, enveloped in nicotine and aftershave, Timmy can still taste sunset on Armie’s tongue; he wonders where he’s been before this, what he thinks about and who he becomes outside of this messy world of smokey clouds and loud stage shows, he wonders who he is when he’s alone.

And Timmy realizes then with Armie’s lips on his jaw, that he wants to get to know him; he wants to get to know him more than he’s ever wanted to know anyone else. This doesn’t feel safe at all. This makes him feel vulnerable. This gives him that intoxicated feeling, because Armie is a safe bet, but what Timmy wants to let him do to him feels fucking dangerous.

There’s a metronome pulse running through his body, there’s Armie’s hands running up his spine, he feels drawn out, impossible, barely catching his breath. They’re smothered in sweat and aftershave, and moonlight cascading through the small open window of the bathroom.

Timmy calls this romance, or at least passion, something that gets his heart racing, something that gives himself to hold onto. And gasp. His fingernails dig deep enough to scar, and he gasps for breathe over Armie’s shoulder, his legs fall limp around his body, but Armie picks him up again, Armie puts him back in his place again, with legs wrapped tight around his waist, pushing him back into the wall and making a picture of him.

Part of Timmy thinks he’ll end up being immortalized like this — pressed into a bathroom wall, heavy with the scent of sweat and tobacco, with somebody else’s hands all over him, making him brand new. But he wants to mean more. He wants to be more than just a body. At times, a body is all he needs to be, but he wants more to come of him eventually.

Armie chokes out a breath and squeezes his hands tight on Timmy’s hips, picking him up again and pushing him back into the tile. Timmy feels weightless with his eyes glazed over like that. Everything is just sound and metronome. Rhythm, and a chorus of gasps. He’s going to fall apart like this. But God, he wants to.

“You good?” Armie asks him, holding him still for a moment, and trying to meet Timmy’s gaze.

“Yeah.” Timmy drawls, shaking his head to try and push his hair from where it’s stuck with sweat to his cheeks and forehead.

Armie smiles and pushes Timmy’s hair back for him. “You need anything. Just tell me.”

“I need a fucking miracle, Armie.” Timmy’s eyes glaze over again, he’s talking to God through the moonlit window, not focusing on Armie as a person, but Armie as an object through which he can feel.

Armie leans in close, words whispered into his neck. “I’ll try my best.”

And Armie’s fingernails dig in so deep that Timmy really thinks he’s digging his way under Timmy’s skin, or making him bleed at the very least. Timmy doesn’t mind, at least not in the moment, though he’s sure he’ll complain in the comedown, when all of his pieces are back together again. But for the moment, he’s static, still, inmobile, his whole body in Armie’s two palms, deep breaths, and waiting, waiting.

Armie gets a hand in his hair and starts to fuck into him again, pushing Timmy’s body tight against the tiled bathroom wall. Timmy feels himself contorting, curving back, bruising, shoulder blades dragging; he’s opening up in a way he doesn’t quite have words for. In this moment, he only has his body, but still he wants to give Armie something more.

And Armie is sweat and musk, and cigarette smoke lost in the fabric of his clothes, his face painted red with concentration. He’s fucking Timmy like he means it. And for a moment, Timmy’s scared that he really does, because he doesn’t know what that means, and where that puts them, after. After. Timmy lets out a strangled gasp as Armie gets his mouth on Timmy’s jaw.

“Fuck.” He groans, eyes rolling open, and the whole room as he can see it is white and heavenly.

Armie lingers by his throat, as if he’s just breathing him in. “You’re fucking incredible.” He says, picking Timmy’s thighs back up again, and Timmy struggle to keep his balance, getting his hands wrapped around Armie’s shoulders, and trailing up to his hair.

“Stop talking shit.” Timmy tells him, pulling his hair a little. “And fuck me.”

Armie raises his eyebrows, holding Timmy’s gaze for what feels like forever, rendering them both frozen, static, and it’s only then that Timmy realizes how Amie is in control, how he has more trust in Armie in that moment, than his body can ever contain.

And it’s nothing conscious, because on a conscious level Timmy’s disinterested and forever trying to make a point out of it, forever trying to distance the two of them, forever trying to tear himself to pieces, and he wonders suddenly, if he’s compensating for something.

But he doesn’t get time to wonder for long, because Armie gets his hands on him, Armie _really_ gets his hands on him, drives his fingers into Timmy’s skin and means it, and Timmy’s mind white outs to static. Then everything runs off course — destroy the metronome, fuck a rhythm, Armie takes Timmy’s body and makes it a hurricane.

Timmy’s eyes roll back, everything is thunder and cigarettes, Armie’s smell, Armie’s hands, Armie’s body, all over him, and he lets him; he lets this boy do what he wants with him; he lets Armie cut him deep, and in the end, he even lets him tear him right to pieces.

Armie chokes, throwing them both back into the wall, as he lets out a cacophony of sighs into Timmy’s throat. Timmy’s left, still, stuck, pinned up between Armie’s body and the wall, trying to breathe, trying to cum, but left stuck. He has to trust. He has to trust this boy coming undone and putting himself back together again.

Timmy closes his eyes. Armie catches his breath, untangles the two of them, and gets his fingers up around Timmy instead. Neither of them say a word, everything is all wide blown glances and desperate intakes of breath, because truth be told, Timmy’s terrified what’ll happen, if ever of them start saying the truth aloud.

And then Timmy’s body untangles around Armie’s, but Armie holds him still, keeps him in place, keeps him breathing, as Armie pushes out sighs, kisses, and silent promises into the tender parts of Timmy’s upper body. Armie holds him still until Timmy thinks he can trust his legs again.

“Good?” Armie asks, looking him over, and suddenly, despite the low, flickering light of the disabled toilet, Timmy feels like he has the world’s eyes all over him.

“Yeah.” Timmy murmurs, too tired to think of something snarky. Armie looks pleased with himself, and starts to clean himself up.

Timmy cleans himself up the best he can, and gets himself as close to presentable as he imagines he’ll ever be. When he traipses over to the mirror to fix his hair, Armie is there, leant back against the tiles, fumbling around in his pocket for a cigarette.

Timmy gives up on trying to make his hair look pretty, and instead just pins it back so it’s out of his face. His makeup’s smudged, but he doesn’t care enough to try to fix it.

Armie lights his smoke, before sliding the packet across the counter to Timmy. “You look pretty.” He promises him.

Timmy rolls his eyes. “I don’t _care.”_ Armie snorts. “I find that hard to believe.”

“Well, you can believe what you like, Armie, but...” He sighs, and takes Armie’s lighter. He turns then, so he has his back to the mirror, and the rim of the sink is digging into his lower back.

“But what...?” Armie asks, moving so he’s stood in Timmy’s eye-line. “It doesn’t matter much.” Timmy decides, kicking the heel of his boot against the tile. “Don’t get all depressive on me.” Armie warns, teasingly. “Or at least warn me for next time.” Timmy looks up, eyes all wide. “Next time?” “Yeah.” Armie snorts. “Thought that’d get you talking.”

Timmy flushes. “I don’t know.” He says.

“That’s fine.” Armie promises him. “I’m not asking you to have your mind made up about everything.”

“And I’m not getting all depressive.” Timmy says suddenly. “I’m being perfectly reasonable considering I’ve got no band now, and now that I’ve got no band, half my mates aren’t gonna want to talk to me, and what have I really got, I’ve got you and this fucking bathroom—“

Armie smiles. “Could be worse.”

“Yeah.” Timmy sighs. “But... point is. It’s been weird. It’s been loud and fucking everything, and you, and your band, and...” He sighs. “If I get another chance, don’t let me fuck it up.”

Armie frowns. “How did you fuck anything up this time? They kicked you out— they fucked up, Timmy, they—“

“I know it’s wrong, Armie.” Timmy looks down. “But part of me just wishes this could be easy, and I could be normal, and we could be the kind of band that anyone would put on a magazine, and— Safe and fucking normal and easy—“

“But then there’s no risk in it. Nothing true or real. Nothing that matters.” Armie tells him. “You don’t want to live like that. Where are you gonna end up if you live like that? Middle aged and working a fucking office job—“

“As if any office is ever gonna employ me.” Timmy snorts.

“But as if you’d want that.” Armie says. “You know what you stand for, and you’ve got meaning and... I don’t know what to call it, but when you’re up on the stage, I fucking feel something, you feel something, and we all fucking feel something. Whatever you do, don’t ever lose that.”

Timmy nods, thinking for a moment. “Thanks, Armie.” “Yeah.” He smiles. “It’s all good.” Timmy stubs out his cigarette. “It’s well late, isn’t it?” “Like two in the morning, I think.” Armie tells him. “Yeah, I should get home.”

“I can walk you.” Armie offers, finishing his cigarette, and tossing it into the bin.

“I don’t need walking home.” Timmy insists, narrowing his eyes at him.

“Okay.” Armie smiles. “I’ll walk with you as far as I need to go. Are you happy with that?”

“Whatever. Fine.” Timmy sighs. “But don’t get attached and start thinking we’re together or something, just ‘cause I let you fuck me, that’s really nothing special where I’m concerned.”

“I know.” Armie nods. “People talk, Timmy. Don’t think I don’t listen.” Timmy arches an eyebrow, but decides that maybe he’d be better off not knowing. “Come on.” Armie says, and they traipse out of the bathroom and back into the musky air of the venue, trying to look as inconspicuous as possible.

“I want you to meet my band, you know?” Armie says, under the starlight, as they navigate the roads that lead out of the bustle of the city and wind down into the suburbs.

“What? Even if whatshername stays in?” Timmy frowns.

“She won’t.” Armie sounds confident enough to make Timmy believe it. “Her and Will’s relationship was doomed from the beginning, I mean, we didn’t tell him this, but...”

“Mm.” Timmy snorts. “Bit insensitive, salt in the wound like, if you’re well upset that you’ve lost your girlfriend and your singer, and then you turn up with me like here’s her replacement.”

“Yeah well, you don’t have to date him.” Armie laughs. “In fact, please _don’t_ date him.” “What?” Timmy turns. “‘Cause you’ll get jealous?” “Yeah.” Armie says, a little too earnestly.

Timmy sighs. “Doomed from the start.” He repeats. “That’s what your mates are gonna think if they take one look at you and me like that. And if they won’t tell you, I will, ‘cause I don’t want you to get hurt, Armie, but I am going to hurt you, just by the nature of who I am.”

“I can handle it.” Armie tells him. “I can handle you. You don’t have to look after me.”

“Yeah, well, you don’t have to look after me either!” Timmy insists. “But here you are — walking me home.”

“I care.” Armie explains.“Well, maybe I care too.” Timmy shakes his head. “God, Armie, maybe I fucking care about you.”

“Isn’t that strange?” Armie snorts, taking a breath “Can you do Wednesday night, though? Meet the band.”

Timmy sighs. “What you’re gonna do? Pick me up at six like I’m your fucking girlfriend or something?”

Armie smirks. “If you want.”

Timmy flushes.

“Or I can give you the address now.”

Timmy makes a face. “Fine, pick me up— whatever, I don’t care.”

“You do.” Armie tells him.

Timmy sighs, but doesn’t push it.

“Get home safe, alright?” Armie says and means it.

“Yeah. You too.” Timmy says and tries to put a barb in his voice, but it all comes out more genuine than he’d anticipated.

Armie catches a smile and holds it in place, lingering for a moment.

“Can I kiss you or are you gonna try to kill me before I even get close?”

Timmy sighs, glancing around. “Fine. At least while nobody’s looking.”

“Oh god, yeah.” Armie makes a face. “Wouldn’t want to ruin your reputation, would we?”

“Oh, fuck off, Armie.” Timmy says, and kisses him instead. It’s sweet like starlight, and Timmy comes back down dizzy.

“See you.” Armie says, backing away slowly.

“Yeah.” Timmy nods, and tries to do away with the thought that he doesn’t ever want Armie to leave.

“Wednesday.” Armie reminds him. “Six.” And disappears off into the night.

Timmy catches his breath, hovering in place for just a moment, before turning and making the rest of his way home.

He feels dizzy with something, and more than just the drink and the sex, but something more than that, something that cuts deep enough to hit the bone. He doesn’t quite have a name for it yet, but he calls it Trouble, because if he knows one thing at all, it’s that it’s dangerous, and sure to kill him if he lets it get close enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I DO NOT OWN THIS STORY. 
> 
> This is an adaptation from an original work posted by Babyspiders on Wattpad, all credit to her ( and before anyone comes after me. It was allowed). If you want to go check her work. She also has a poetry Instagram acc:
> 
> https://www.instagram.com/futile.devicez/
> 
> She is one of my all time favorite fanfic writers. I can't tell you enough how much I ADORE this story and her writing in general.  
> I did this for my enjoyment. I just really wanted to see Armie and Timmy's characters in this setting. Then I wanted more people to know this beautiful queer story. I'm aware comments are rewarding for writers, and since I did not write this I do not deserve them (though I still want to know what you think of it). I'll let them on for now and see what you think would be best.
> 
> Timmy Glitter Image Source: https://mypinkcactus.tumblr.com/post/185882787696/in-color-because-why-not


	3. III.

He’s bathed in sunlight, pooling in from the late afternoon. Timmy sees himself in pieces, just skin and bone and soul. He’s sat smoking by the window, hair pulled back from his face, pen and paper abandoned on the windowsill; he’s long since given up trying to write anything of meaning.

Footsteps thud up the stairs and the bedroom door clicks open; Timmy doesn’t move; Timmy doesn’t even turn. He can feel the smile, he can feel the smirk, he can feel those taking him in like something to devour. Hungry. Always hungry. That’s how city boys are made — always hungry, never able to get enough.

“Don’t ever put clothes on.” He tells him, letting the door click shut, as he traipses across the mottled carpet, winding his fingertips around Timmy’s curls, and massaging his palms into his neck.

Timmy makes a face, stretching out his shoulders in an attempt to shake the hands off.

“No.” He hums out a smirk, voice in his ear, too loud, like church bells, like footsteps in a silent hallway. “You sit still for once.”

Timmy stares out over the afternoon and watches the skies turn stormy grey from pacific blue; he takes a drag of his cigarette and lets this loud, starving city boy put his hands all over him. He feels stained, dirty, the kind of dirty he can never get clean from, but Timmy has spent his whole life dirty — there were only flickers, moments when he felt whole, clean, holy, afternoons without a cloud in the sky.

The city boy presses his lips into Timmy’s jaw. Timmy can’t help himself. He thinks of Armie. And he almost drops his cigarette; his vision glazes over, and thinks of Armie’s mouth, but not just Armie’s mouth on his skin, but Armies’s mouth when the words come out soft, and the words come out with meaning. Get home safe. Timmy bites his lip. See you Wednesday. Timmy winces.

“Yeah.” The boy purrs against his neck. “You always fucking want it, don’t you?”

Timmy stares out into the charcoal afternoon, and searches desperately for a silver lining.

“Mm?” The boy urges, pressing his fingertips into Timmy’s neck until they bruise. When Timmy remains silent, he pulls away, uninterested, grabbing an apple left out on the desk, and falls back onto the bed.

“There’s no fun when it’s all chase, chase, chase.” The boy tells him. “All game. No prize. We all wanna win.”

“If it’s a game...” Timmy says, through a heaved sigh. It’s not a way he wants anyone to think of him, to think of his body, but he feels entrenched in the feeling that he has no choice. “Then why don’t I get to win?”

“‘Cause baby...” He gets up again, throwing the apple back down to the desk. “You’re the prize.” He says it like it’s a compliment, with his arms around Timmy’s neck, kissing his skin again.

Timmy sighs, pulls away, and gets up. “What do you want?” He asks, folding his arms over his chest, as he stands naked in his bedroom, in front of this boy that wants to tear him to pieces for the sheer fun of it.

He makes a face, raking his eyes over Timmy’s body, and stopping half-way down. “You know I don’t like it.” He says, gesturing vaguely towards Timmy’s cock.

“Mm.” Timmy takes another drag of his cigarette. “You don’t like dick, you don’t like boys, but you’ll get your hands, your mouth, your body, all over me. Doesn’t make sense that.”

“Don’t start playing games again.” He laughs, burnt red with anxiety.

Timmy sighs; this is how it always is — he knows well how to get boys to stay, and how well to get them to leave. It only cuts him up when he starts to care, when he starts to let them mean something. He thinks suddenly about Armie, and wants to take his head to pieces.

“It’s the truth.” Timmy tells him, narrowing his eyes. “And what are you still here for? You had your fun. It’s a Wednesday afternoon — haven’t you got better places to be?”

“Haven’t you?” City boy smiles at him. He has a name, and Timmy’s sure he knows it, but he doesn’t care to use it — this is anyone, this could be anyone.

“No, of course not.” He laughs at him. “Big house like this — what do you do all day? Sit around and get fucked while living off mummy and daddy’s money?” He pouts. “You’re fucking spoilt.”

Timmy stubs out his cigarette. “Nice seeing you.” He says, talking more to the setting sun than the boy watching him.

He snorts in the doorway. “Yeah. Should’ve known about you. Should’ve heard the fucking stories.”

“And what fucking stories?” Timmy asks, letting his curiosity get the better of him. The boy snorts. “Wouldn’t you like to fucking know?”

And Timmy stands still, naked and exposed, without even a cigarette, listening to the stairs creak as he disappears throughout the house. He turns to the front window, watching as he finally disappears out onto the street.

Timmy catches a sigh and slumps down onto the bed. He thinks about putting clothes on, but knows he ought to shower first. He thinks again of Armie, of this fucking mess he’s gotten all twisted in his head. They’re not together, they’re not even close, but in Timmy’s head getting with the same boy twice and still seeing virtue in him feels matrimonial. Of course, he can imagine Armie laughing at the concept.

He can imagine Armie laughing at him. He can imagine Armie’s hands all over him like every other boy’s. He can imagine Armie calling him a ‘fucking prize’. He can imagine Armie playing the game, just with a better bluff. He’s a boy like all others, isn’t he? A dirty fucking livid city boy with hunger swelling in him like spirit, and boys like that are made to want to win. Timmy decides then and there, that he wants to know what the stories say.

He gets in the shower and scrubs hard enough at his skin just to wipe off the fingerprints, the indentations, but boys learn quickly, and boys learn how to dig deep, how to make their mark permanent. And Timmy can scrub and clean and cover over his skin as much as he’s able, but he’ll never be able to do that with memories — he’ll never be able to plaster over his guilt. It’ll just sit there, volatile, waiting, hungry like every other forgotten, careless boy in this godforsaken city.

Timmy stands naked in his room again, clean, but still unable to remove the dirt. Every boy has pieces of him, discarded everywhere and anywhere. And that’s the price he pays for company, for loneliness is an affliction, an addiction, and Timmy kicks the half-eaten apple into the bin, and straightens the sheets, but will never be able to undo their weight, the places where their bodies laid. All of the boys that traipsed back here, all of the boys he let in just for the chance to feel sane.

It’s been bad this week. Timmy sits on the end of his bed with his head in his hands. After the last show, after being kicked out of the band, after Ansel, after winding up on his own two feet, Timmy’s spent days and nights just looking for someone, anyone to lean on. It’s been bad this week. Timmy’s started letting boys take pieces of his everything just for the chance of company.

And God, Armie. Armie should think better of him. Timmy desperately wants Armie to think better of him, though he has the sneaking suspicion that Armie knows him better than most. Still it feels strange. The way Armie is insistent on treating him like he needs looking after. Though, Armie, Timmy supposes, is strange within himself, but unabashed with it, not unabashed like Timmy is, always trying to prove himself, but Armie knows himself enough not to have to find closure in turning his personality into a performance art.

And God, Timmy must be mad to think he even knows him at all. After two meetings. After two occasions in which he let Armie get his hands all over his body, and God. Timmy must be mad to come back for a third. But Armie must be mad to want it too.

Timmy tugs some clothes on in the end. He realizes he can’t do over his mistakes, but at least tries to find solace in hiding them. He dresses up, he dresses pretty, because he wants Armie to look at him, really look at him, like he’s looking at him for the first time. He wants this all to feel dangerous and electric all over again.

He tucks a delicate blouse, unbuttoned a little way down, into a leather skirt, and tries to make sense out of his makeup. Everything’s harder without a steady hand; he’s all anxieties, watching the sunset envelope the grave afternoon, bathing charcoal skies in tangerine and daring to call it more than just a blood bath. Tangerine becomes red, and violet sparks burn with a flame. The sky feels apocalyptic, and Timmy knows within him, that something, anything, by the end of the night, is going to come to the end of its tether.

He stares at himself in the mirror. Rose lipstick, dark eyes, and he still looks like a little boy trying to fit into someone else’s shoes, though he’s not sure who he ever wanted to be, who he ever thought he could become. Still, he tries to do something with his hair and call it pretty, It’s a poor imitation of a girl on a magazine cover, but he’s sure with enough drink, he could look glossy enough to be believed.

And he finds his feet. It’s five forty three.

He turns his gaze down to the notebook, to the pen, to the packet of cigarettes. What is there to write songs about other than boys who want to own him? And that’s not something he wants to immortalize in print. He wants that to be forgotten. He wants to be forgotten, he almost thinks.

He grabs the cigarettes and goes. He needs to leave this house. To leave this room. Not just to turn the page of the book, but to break it straight down the spine. He hurries out onto the street, lighting himself a cigarette, and wanders down to the street corner on which they agreed to meet.

He can still see them here, at two in the morning, days ago now, as he leans back against the wall, and lets his lips draw a ring of pink around the filter. Get home safe. Armie’s words are in his head again. As if they ever left. Timmy laughs at himself, like he imagines in time, that Armie’ll be laughing at him too.

He wonders for a moment, just what he’s doing here, putting all of his trust in him, in this boy, as deranged and volatile as any other, and yet he wants to get to know him, to get to know him with trust involved. And if he’s being entirely truthful, that’s a feeling he just doesn’t know what to do with.

And then a car draws up to the kerb. It’s already too dark to discern the color beyond the rust, and Timmy both knows and cares too little about cars to try and discern the make, but he catches Armie’s eye as he rolls down the driver’s side window, and everything else disappears.

“Hey gorgeous.” He says, taking Timmy in with his eyes, glistening in the moonlight.Timmy rolls his eyes, and Armie breaks into laughter as Timmy climbs in the passenger’s seat.

“God, don’t start talking like that.” Timmy says, finishing his cigarette and stubbing it out into the ashtray.

“What? Like everyone else?” Armie asks, turning to Timmy, before taking off down the road.

“Yeah. Like that.” Timmy tells him, leaning his head against the window. “I can’t stomach anymore of it. Especially not from you.”

Armie fails to hide his grin. “Thought you liked it, though.” He says, teasingly. “Boys who treat you like shit.”

“Yeah...” Timmy tips out a sigh. “The adrenaline of the high, but not so much the comedown.” Armie offers him a quick smile, before turning back to the road. “Wanna talk about it?”

“No, Armie, I don’t want to sit and talk about boys like that with you.” Timmy says, exasperated, as if it should have been obvious. “I want to forget and fucking feel something worth feeling, and where the hell are we going?”

“Nick’s place.” Armie explains. “There’s gonna be a few people, I mean, it’s no, you know? It’s a Wednesday night, it’s something small, but something... I just want the guys to meet you really, and maybe we’ll have a little to drink, I mean, I gotta drive you home, but, and then...” Armie trails off.

“Yeah.” Timmy says, trying not to think about what comes after. “God, I hope I don’t hate your friends.”

Armie snorts. “Yeah, me too.”

“I’ve been going crazy, you know?” He says, suddenly. “Without a band, without you know— it’s not the same writing songs, when they’re just songs on paper, songs maybe on your guitar, then writing songs that are songs you get to play with people and play for people and fucking scream and see the faces in the crowd look up at you and here it. Songs that get to mean something. Now it just feels like everything has no meaning. Like just static. I need a fucking band, Armie.”

“Mm.” Armie nods. “I can see it. You’re so fucking on edge.” “Yeah.”

“But Will’s still moping over Sophie so don’t push your point too hard, but I think they’ll like you, or at least, I’ll put a very good word in.” Armie explains.

“What?” Timmy snorts. “That you fancy me so much you’d give your life to watch me perform on stage right in front of you all the time?”

Armie rolls his eyes. “Yeah, something like that.”

Armie drives until Timmy feels truly trenched in the unfamiliar, when the houses are just trees, and the city is but a cluster of silhouettes on the horizon. Timmy lets himself settle down into the twilight, watching the headlight beams cast shapes and shadows against dimly lit country roads. The stars are out tonight, and he presses his head against the glass to try and make out the constellations.

Armie has the radio on. A low hum in the background, a slow song that Timmy doesn’t recognise, so they don’t have to make conversation. Timmy calls it yet more static. Static like Armie, static like twilight, static like half-way worlds, static like when they are half-way between home and somewhere new, Timmy looks back on the city lights, and watches the dimly lit country hilltops swallow it whole.

“How far are we driving?” He asks, tracing patterns into the condensation on the passenger’s side window.

“Not far now.” Armie tells him, turning to another more brightly lit road. Timmy thinks they must be close to civilization again.

“Feels a bit murdery.” Timmy says, absent-mindedly picking at a loose thread on his shirt. Armie snorts. “What?”“Alone on country roads in the dark.” Timmy tells him. “Feels all horror movie.”“I wasn’t planning on killing you.” Armie tells him, in half-hearted reassurance. “Yeah.” Timmy smiles. “Shame. I didn’t guess you were.”

“Not the type?” Armie asks.

“No, come on, you’re supposed to be the boring one, someone calm, someone safe, you can’t go out and murder me, that’s just not how life works.” Timmy tells him, rolling down the window, and reaching into his pocket for a cigarette.

“Look,” Armie says as they roll up a larger road, and everything turns back into houses again, darkness bleached by great bulbs of white, a hundred imitation suns, a thousand other cars, another town of people. “Civilization.”

Timmy nods. “You could’ve warned me,” He says, “About the long drive. I would have bought a book.”

Armie snorts. “As if you read.”

“I do.” Timmy says, earnestly, watching Armie for a moment. “You just like to think you already know everything about me.”

Armie smiles, navigating a few wound down suburban streets, before pulling up on a desolate, but brightly lit corner. Timmy almost feels like he’s back in the city again.

“I don’t like knowing everything about you.” Armie says, taking the keys out of the engine. “I just like figuring you out.”

Timmy rolls his eyes in the passenger seat, but Armie leans over and kisses him. Timmy leans in, ready to offer up his everything, just for the sake of a spark, just for the sake of feeling eternal, but Armie pulls away too quickly, watching Timmy with a smile, like he’s being careful for the both of them. And Timmy thinks of himself as puzzle, one that both him and Armie have yet to solve, but he thinks that they’re both getting dangerously close.

“Come on.” Armie says, opening the car door, and gesturing for Timmy to follow him up onto the pavement. Timmy’s about two thirds through his cigarette, and trying to scope out their surroundings, when Armie takes it from his fingers and steals a drag.

“Hey—“ Timmy narrows his eyes.Armie smirks, exhaling slow, before offering Timmy the cigarette back.

Timmy takes it, and takes another drag before stubbing it out. “You’ve got lipstick now.” He gestures up to Armie’s mouth.

“You sure that was the cigarette and not me kissing you?” Armie raises his eyebrows, and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

Timmy shrugs. “Better now.”Armie smiles, and ushers Timmy down the street. “It’s...” He pauses.

“The house with the constant stream of people going in and out?” Timmy snorts. “Thought you said this was a quiet thing?”

“Yeah.” Armie frowns. “That’s what I thought too.”

“Someone’ll have invited their dodgy mates, and then those dodgy mates will have invited theirs and...” Timmy gestures with his hands. “I would know.” He turns to Armie. “I have a lot of dodgy mates. Well,” He makes a face, “Not really mates, but.”

“Yeah.” Armie says. “You _are_ the dodgy mates.”“Fuck off.” Timmy laughs, but Armie is too entrenched by the situation to linger around and mindlessly flirt with him.“Fucking...” They draw closer to the house. “I’ve gotta find Nick.”

“Yeah, ‘cause...” Timmy makes a face. “That music and this neighborhood,” He glances around, “I’m putting a bet on cops showing up in like, twenty, thirty minutes?”

Armie drags in a sigh, reaching for Timmy’s hand. “Come on.” He says, and drags him through the crowd of people, past whoever had been attempting to man the door, and into the party. Timmy doesn’t get the chance enough to be flustered, or even pay much notice to his surroundings, all he can do is allow Armie drag him through crowd after crowd of people.

“Looks a bit suspicious, this.” Timmy says, louder than he wants to, just to be heard, “You dragging me upstairs.” He’s trying to make something light-hearted out of this, because he feels so much like he’s swiftly sinking.

Armie rolls his eyes. “Wouldn’t want to ruin your reputation, would we?”

“Course.” Timmy says, relieved to find the house a little quieter and a little less crowded once upstairs. He hovers in the hallway while Armie checks the rooms one by one, tentative with the bedrooms, shielding his eyes, but he’s relieved to find what Timmy assumes must be Nick, and not anyone in any kind of compromising position.

“Nick, what the fuck’s going on?” Armie asks, disappearing into the room. Timmy hangs back in the hallway for a moment, unsure of what to do with himself.

“I don’t know.” Nick lets out a sigh. “How are we meant to get people to leave, I mean—“

“If you don’t you’re gonna have the police turning up soon.” Armie says. “We’ve gotta get them gone.”

“Yeah.” Agrees a third and a fourth voice, a little harder for Timmy to make out from behind the door.

Armie turns back out into the hallway, and Timmy watches as the rest of the guys traipse out of the room. For the most part, they look too stoned to really process the reality of the situation, and Timmy makes a face in Armie’s direction, because he’s not sure that this was what he signed up for when he agreed to come tonight.

“Oh, by the way, this is Timmy.” Armie gestures in his direction.

Nick frowns. “That’s Timothee Chalamet.”

“Don’t tell him you know who he is, his ego’s bad enough already.” Armie teases.

“Hey.” Timmy narrows his eyes at him. “But yeah,” He turns back to Nick, letting out a sigh, “I’m Timothee.”

Nick buries his head in his hands. “That’s the last fucking thing I need, this turning into some everyone’s invited party, and then _Timothee Chalamet_ turns up, and—“

“I brought him.” Armie tells him. Nick frowns, turning back to the other guys. “Not really what we needed right now, Armie, but—“

“If you want people gone just tell them the police are coming. That someone already called them.”

Timmy says, cutting him off. “Which to be fair, probably isn’t even that much of a lie, so you guys should probably try and look a little less obviously high—“

“And how did you two meet? Exactly?” Another of Armie’s friends asks; Timmy recognises him from the band.

“Look, we can sit around and tell each other stories later, but _now.”_ Timmy gestures downstairs. “Go fucking turn the music off and start shouting at people, come on.” He rolls his eyes.

Nick shoots him a glance, like he really doesn’t know what to make of him yet, but doesn’t hesitate in hurrying downstairs; the rest of the guys follow him, though pay Timmy less attention.

Armie lingers with him for a moment.

“You’re gonna make them hate you.” He says through a smirk, and gets his hands in Timmy’s hair again.

Timmy looks up to meet his eyes, world falling soft around him as downstairs the music shuts off. He wants to kiss him again, while he still feels like he has the chance.

“You too.” He says instead, gesturing downstairs. “He’s your friend, he needs your help.”

“Us too.” Armie corrects, grabbing Timmy by the hand. “You’re gonna need to try and give him a reason to like you.”

Timmy snorts. “Oh, come on, he didn’t like me before he even met me. You heard how he said my name. _Timothee Chalamet.”_ He makes an attempt at an impression.

Armie sighs. “We’ll talk about it later.” He says, and drags Timmy back downstairs.

Timmy’s surprised himself at the proficiency of their tactics, and also at the rate that Nick is managing to push people out of the front door.

“I’m not helping with clean up.” He asserts, looking down to the scattered mess of a living room. “Yeah, me neither.” Armie says, dragging him around to pick up the last stragglers.

They leave Nick and the others to deal with the house while they wander out into the garden and intimidate a few people smoking, which all goes much easier than Timmy had expected. He starts to think he’s got a talent for standing next to a tall guy and looking intimidating.

“Fuck.” He laughs up at the stars, once they’ve cleared out the garden. “People here are such pushovers.”

“You’re not doing well on the getting people to like you front.” Armie reminds him, stepping back into Timmy’s space, for no reason other than the fact that they have a spare minute to themselves.

“I don’t need every random to like me.” Timmy protests, letting Armie play with his hair. “But your friends, yeah.”

“Yeah.” Armie tells him, and kisses him quickly again, before pulling away, and leaving Timmy to stumble after him as he heads back off inside.

“I think that’s it.” Another of Armie’s friends call out, and as they stand in the living room, with all the doors shut, the house sounds so silent in contrast that Timmy feels like, once again, he’s drowning in static.

“Yeah.” Armie confirms. “We sorted the garden as well.”

“Fuck’s sake.” Nick sighs. “This mess—“

“In the morning. Deal with it in the fucking morning.” Someone tells him.

“Do I get properly introduced now?” Timmy asks Armie. “Or what?”

“Yeah.” Armie clears his throat. “Guys, this is Timmy. Timmy, that’s Nick, Will, Tyler.” He gestures at each person in turn.

“Yeah.” Nick interjects, narrowing his eyes. “What _are_ you doing with Chalamet?”

Timmy snorts. “I didn’t have to help you get a hundred people out of your house, you know?” He says, glancing around the room, and picks a half-empty bottle of wine up from the coffee table, before pouring it into the only empty cup he can find which happens to be a coffee mug.

“Oh yeah.” Nick rolls his eyes. “Help yourself.”

Timmy sips on his wine and narrows his eyes at Nick.

“I told you to be nice.” Armie eyes him.

“I’m being nice.” Timmy protests. “He isn’t.”

Armie sighs, and drags Timmy over to the sofa. They all end up sat around the coffee table, with Timmy and Armie on one sofa, and Nick, Will, and Tyler piled onto the other.

“I know who you are.” Nick tells him. “We all know who you are. I mean, fucking hell, Armie, you know who he is, don’t you?”

“Yeah.” Armie says. “But Nick, sometimes the rumors you hear about people, don’t necessarily match up with the reality.”

“You’re just biased ‘cause you fancy him.” Nick says, and Timmy doesn’t think that Armie is in much of a place to disagree. Armie buries his head in his hands.

“Well, yeah.” Will adds, “But... still he might have a point. I mean, sure we’ve all heard stories and rumors, but we don’t actually know him.”

“And Armie does?” Nick asks.

“He knows me better than most people.” Timmy says, avoiding Armie’s gaze. “And I can guess what people say, I can guess what kind of person people think I am, but, can’t you make your own mind up?”

“I heard you were a shithead.” Tyler adds, though his tone makes it clear that he means nothing harmful by it.

“I probably am.” Timmy shrugs. “But who’s in a band and isn’t a shithead? The worse ones are the ones that don’t admit it.” He thinks back to Ansel, to the last show, to static instead of his bones, and feel like he’s going to fucking explode.

“Sophie.” Will says, more to the guys than Timmy. “Or fuck, are we not allowed to call girls shitheads, but she—“

“She fucked you over.” Nick affirms.

“Fucked us over.” Tyler corrects.

“Yeah.” Armie turns to Timmy. “Sophie.”

“Sophie?” Nick catches his gaze, looking between the two of them, and slowly putting the pieces together.

Armie lets out a sigh. “Timmy sings.”

“No.” Nick stands up, and starts proclaiming vehemently. “I’m vetoing this right here, right now. No, no, no—“

Timmy sighs, and just looks at Armie.

“Come on.” Armie makes a bid to defend him. “Have you even heard him sing?”

“Have you?” Nick retorts.

“Yeah.” Armie asserts. “And he’s fucking good, and the only reason his band kicked him out was ‘cause some guy was a homophobic dickhead—“

“Oh.” Nick gazes softens slightly. “Sorry—“ “It’s fine.” Timmy promises anyone who’ll believe him. Armie, for one, definitely doesn’t.

“And yeah,” Armie picks up again, “You don’t have to like him on a personal level, you don’t even have to have him in our band, but you have to fucking hear him sing, that’s only fair.”

“He has a point.”

“Not now, obviously, but...” Armie sighs and looks to Timmy. “This wasn’t supposed to go like this.”

Timmy shrugs. “Not your fault.”

Armie sighs, and lets Timmy lean into him.

“Is this...?” Will asks, gesturing between the two of them.

Timmy flushes, trying to hide his face.

“Yeah, what is...” Nick only grows more suspicious. “Because I’m not letting you fuck him around.” He adds, to Timmy.

“Good, ‘cause I’m not letting Armie fuck me around either.” Timmy says, not meeting Armie’s gaze.

“Are you like together?” Tyler prompts.

“No, course not.” Nick answers for them. “Timothée Chalamet doesn’t do together.” Timmy knows it’s true, but still feels discarded and shallow all the same.

Armie makes an excuse to go out and smoke, and Timmy lets himself be dragged along again, because suddenly everything’s a wall of static inside his head. He’s trying to draw out constellations, but everything’s muddy now, it’s getting closer to midnight.

Armie, he can tell, is trying to think up excuses — something to say, and a way to say it, to make this all better. And Timmy wants to think, so what if your friends don’t like me, but it cuts deeper than he’s willing to let it admit.

“Timothée Chalamet doesn’t do together.” Is all Armie can say in the end, repeating Nick’ words like a tape stuck on rewind. “Is that true?”

Timmy swallows, and tries to be elsewhere. The sinking feeling he gets in his chest scares him; this wasn’t supposed to matter — none of this was supposed to matter.

“Define together.” He says, in an attempt to buy himself time to think. “Boyfriends.” Armie says, and lets the word grate against his tongue.

Timmy snorts. “Good luck finding someone who’d want to be my boyfriend, and also I’d want to be my boyfriend— fucking hell, Armie I fuck the same guy three times, and just get bored, run out of things to pretend to talk about when he’s lying in my bed and he won’t leave.”

“And we’ve only really fucked once.” Armie says. “Or are you counting the first time?”

Timmy’s stomach lurches, because all he wants to say, is ‘no, I’m not counting you like that at all’, but the words just won’t come out. Instead he says, “And if I counted it, and the third time would be the last time, would you still fuck me tonight? ‘Cause I know you want to. I’ve seen it in your eyes from the moment you picked me up.”

Armie flushes. “Yeah. And I’d prove you wrong.”

Timmy snorts.

“Because I haven’t nearly run out of things talk about, and where are we now? Nowhere near your bed? It’s your choice to leave, it’s always been your choice, and here we are, and here you are, and —“

“I want your friends to like me.” Timmy says suddenly, and feels dizzy with the truth. “Me too.” Armie admits. “Just show them who you are, prove them wrong.” “You’re still gonna have to put a good word in.”

“Will and Tyler’ll calm down.” Armie promises him. “Nick’ll be... he’s protective, you know? He’s being like this because he’s being protective of me, and... he thinks you’re trouble, and you are, but I...” Armie trails off, catching his breath. “I’m being careful.”

“Careful.” Timmy repeats back to him. “Is that what you’re doing? Leaning in like you want to destroy me but only kissing me for a few seconds, ‘cause it’s driving me fucking crazy, Armie.”

Armie snorts. “I like that.”

“What?” Timmy throws back at him. “Seeing me go mad.”

“Yeah.” Armie says. “It’s only fair. ‘Cause you drive me crazy all the time.” “And you like that.” Timmy tells him.

“You said that you get bored.” Armie remembers. “Maybe I get bored too sometimes. And I saw you, and I wanted to know you, and I wanted to figure you out. Because there’s something, something there with you, something you’re hiding, and I don’t know what yet, but I think I’m getting there.”

“And what would you do then?” Timmy asks, taking a drag of his cigarette. “When you know me inside out and there’s nothing exciting left?”

“That’s gonna be a long time coming.” Armie assures him. “Are you implying you won’t get bored of me first?”

Timmy flushes. “No, I...” He looks away. “I wanna know you too, because you don’t make sense. I don’t know you like I know every other boy. They’re all the same. You can fuck every boy in the city, and you’ve still just fucked the same boy a thousand times. You know what I mean?”

“I know exactly what you mean.” Armie nods at him. Timmy frowns. “But people don’t go around telling stories about the boys I’ve fucked—“

“It’s different when you look like me.” Timmy sighs. “You noticed what it is yet, ‘cause I think I have. Just ‘cause I look like a girl sometimes, guys start treating me like one. ‘Cause when a girl’s a slut, that’s a different thing to when a boy is. Difference between you and me.”

“It’s ‘cause you’re sleeping with the kind of guys who want to treat you like you’re a girl, _pretend_ like you’re a girl.” Armie tells him. “Or maybe just the kind of guys that treat everyone who isn’t exactly like them like shit.”

“And that’s not you, is it?” Timmy challenges him.

“Find out for yourself.” Armie tells him, and stubs out his cigarette.

Timmy leans into kisses him, but stops himself half-way there. “I’ve got an idea.” He says.

“Oh, no.” Armie laughs.

Timmy grins back at him. “Make an excuse to leave. Say you’ve gotta drive me home, and...” He trails off, reaching up to brush his fingertips against Armie’s jawline.

Armie makes a guttural noise at the bottom of his throat. “Somehow I don’t think Nick’ll mind seeing us gone.”

Timmy snorts. “Yeah?” He asks, making his voice higher pitched, a little breathless, like he wants to be wanted.

“Yeah.” Armie tells him, and kisses him quick like he’s dangerous, before heading back inside to reel off an excuse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you wonder how Nick looks playing in a band, you should search on youtube 'Slow by Hauskey live' the singer is pretty similar to the real one.
> 
> I DO NOT OWN THIS STORY. 
> 
> This is an adaptation from an original work posted by Babyspiders on Wattpad, all credit to her ( and before anyone comes after me. It was allowed). If you want to go check her work. She also has a poetry Instagram acc:
> 
> https://www.instagram.com/futile.devicez/
> 
> She is one of my all time favorite fanfic writers. I can't tell you enough how much I ADORE this story and her writing in general.  
> I did this for my enjoyment. I just really wanted to see Armie and Timmy's characters in this setting. Then I wanted more people to know this beautiful queer story. I'm aware comments are rewarding for writers, and since I did not write this I do not deserve them (though I still want to know what you think of it). I'll let them on for now and see what you think would be best.
> 
> Timmy Glitter Image Source: https://mypinkcactus.tumblr.com/post/185882787696/in-color-because-why-not


	4. IV.

The streets are slick with midnight. Timmy has his two eyes on the moon, and Armie has his two hands on the steering wheel, for now.

They drive until everything gets desolate again, and Timmy’s mind fades back into just static. They don’t have the radio on this time; they revel in the silence — there’s everything to hide and nothing to show for themselves, and yet solace to be found in the midst of it.

That’s what Timmy calls this — the eye of the storm — when Armie pulls up to the side of a darkened back lane. His Adam’s apple bobs in his throat; the engine lets out a breathless shudder as it comes to a halt.

Outside, the darkness feels ultra black, like they’ve found a corner of the world without stars, like there could be no sunrise beyond this desolate midnight, like they’ve found a corner of the world that lives forever in shadow.

Timmy catches his breath for a moment. “Armie” He says, staring out into the blackness. “Mm?” Armie nods, trying to read him, trying to make him out through the darkness. “What kind of stories do you hear about me?” He asks at last, finally giving in.

The clouds shift to allow them enough moonlight to see by. Timmy thinks Armie looks holy, bathed in silver, with his hands still resting on the steering wheel. Timmy wants those hands. Timmy wants those hands all over him, inside him, to behind him until he breaks clean in two. Timmy catches his breath in his throat.

“Stories about things like this.” Armie says, turning to face him in the passenger’s seat. “But what do they say?” Timmy asks, chewing on a thought. “What do the stories say about me?” “That you love it.” Armie tells him, expression unreadable in the low light. “I don’t love it with just anyone.” Timmy protests. “I know.” Armie says, but doesn’t sound like he much believes it.

Timmy climbs over into the backseat. He meets Armie’s eyes in the front mirror, daring, challenging, he spreads his thighs against the seat, and gets this glossy look in his eyes that Armie thinks makes him look like a doll.

“Come,” Timmy whines, making eyes at Armie in the mirror. Armie smirks. “Put your fingers in your mouth.” He tells him.

Timmy obliges, looking slick and obscene in the rearview mirror, cast in lights and shadows — a rendition of the unfaithful matrimony between midnight and moonlight.

Armie settles down in his seat, as if impatient. Timmy thinks manic, of a way to entertain him. He draws his fingers from his mouth and bunches up his skirt, trailing his fingers up his thighs, in a way he knows that Armie can’t quite see. Timmy gasps, breathing through his nose, when he gets a hand around himself. Armie’s eyes grow dark and volatile in the mirror.

“Come here.” Timmy begs him again, voice all high-pitched and breathless. “This was your idea.” Armie reminds him.

“Oh, come on, Armie, I know how long you’ve been waiting to get your dick wet, and now— I wanna give it to you, what are you now, bored?” Timmy sighs, spreading his thighs further.

“You think I’m bored?” Armie snorts, “Watching you like that.” He turns and faces Timmy directly; in contrast, the gesture feels so direct and intimate.

“No.” Timmy swallows, under the weight of Armie’s gaze.

“Good.” Armie tells him, and gets out of the car. Timmy watches him stand still for a while, watching the moon, feeling the breeze on his skin, before he climbs back in the backseat. Then, there’s no questions, just hands, hands, hands, everywhere. Hands, and Armie knows how to use them. Lips, and Timmy wants to feel his go numb. Fuck, and Armie seems to want to let him.

It’s not long before Armie has got Timmy in his lap, legs spread either side of his thighs, hands raking over and under everywhere. Timmy keeps his focus on Armie’s mouth, letting everything else just be background noise. There’s the moonlight, the smell of trouble on the early hour, and complications left behind them, but in the midst of their own buzz of static, Timmy finds the soft sounds Armie makes when Timmy tugs at his bottom lip with his teeth.

Armie pulls back and pushes Timmy down into his lap, grinding. And everything is static sounds, high peaks, and broken chords. Fuck, fuck, fuck, Timmy’s choking until he’s breathless.

Timmy pulls himself up onto his knees, steadying himself with a hand in Armie’s hair.

“Yeah?” Armie asks him, challenging, daring, always under his skin, leaving the kind of marks and bruises that Timmy can’t even get out.

“I’m not letting you fuck me dry.” Timmy says, and means it. Armie snorts, kissing Timmy quickly. “There’s lube in the glovebox.”

Timmy raises his eyebrows. “Oh, you are...” He trails off. He realizes suddenly that he doesn’t know what or who Armie is at all, or what to make of him.

“Don’t tell me you’re going to get pissy that I’ve fucked guys who aren’t you.” Armie makes a sour face. “I know you have a type, but... I’m not it.”

“No, I’m just...” Timmy trails off. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know at all. He wants to go back to when everything was just skin on skin, and they didn’t have to struggle to make conversation.

“Can we talk after?” He asks, pulling Armie’s hair back from his forehead.

Armie nods.

“Thank you.” Timmy says, and climbs back over into the front seat to retrieve the lube from the glovebox.

“You usually get off in your car?” Timmy asks him, looking over the contents of the glovebox. Besides the usual debris, he finds lube, and condoms, and magazines, both kinds — one with boys, one with girls.

“Is the idea that I pick up people to fuck bothering you?” Armie leans over the seat.

“No,” Timmy says, and climbs back into Armie’s lap, setting the lube down beside them. He’s left the glovebox open, like he wants to say something with it, as if he really wants to make a statement.

Armie gets his hands up Timmy’s thighs, pushing his skirt up. “Hold it up.” He tells him, grabbing one of Timmy’s hands and putting it into place.

Timmy obliges and watches for a moment as Armie pops open the lube. “You’re like me.” He says. Armie looks up at him, eyes dark and wild. “What? Because I fuck? Everyone in the world fucks, Timmy.” “But not...” Timmy trails off, and lets Armie get his fingers wet.

“Not everyone fucks boys and likes it.” Armie finishes for him, tracing his fingertips up between Timmy’s thighs.

Timmy nods, bracing himself against the seat with his free hand.“I mean...” Armie trails off, “How many queer people do you actually know, Timmy, ‘cos—“

“Not now.” Timmy sighs, and gets his lips all over Armie’s, just to shut him up. “After. Later. Whenever, just not,” He pants. Armie gets his fingers inside him, “Now.”

“Yeah...” Armie breathes out against his jaw.

“Armie.” Timmy protests, trying to get his lips back on his again, but Armie wants to hear him both moan and complain.

Timmy feels exposed like that, opening up on Armie’s lap, in the middle of nowhere, in the middle of the backseat, lost in the midnight, highlighted by the moon glow.

As far as the moon can see, they move as one body in the backseat, and everything that catches the light is something sharp and dangerous — Timmy’s collar bones, Armie’s shoulder blades, Timmy’s ribcage, Armie’s hands, Timmy’s mouth, Armie’s eyes.

And through the reign of static, rain begins to fall, softly first against the glass, before everything becomes thunder against the roof, doors and windows. Touch everywhere, encompassing, but never inside, never damaged, never spoilt; Timmy thinks Armie knows him now, like the rain knows his car, everywhere and yet nowhere at all.

From the rain comes rhythm, and Armie grunts like he’s really concentrating, and Timmy’s struggling for breath, looking off to the moonlight, to the rainstorm, the static, but Armie’s hand keeps tapping his gaze back, keeping his attention fixed down, making him look at Armie, making Armie look at him. Timmy feels naked then, even with his skirt only bunched up around his hips, and half of the buttons of his blouse undone. He realizes then that it’s less about what Armie actually does and says, but more about how he makes him feel. That’s what’s different. And the rain pounds harder against the glass.

Timmy only then really starts to feel fragile, malleable, able to be owned, but still in control of his own ownership, forever looking down and seeing darkness, seeing him. Timmy catches his breath and moves their bodies as one.

The rain increases, harder, forceful, as if destructive, but Timmy sees peace in it, sees peace in all of this, the static, the calm, the quiet, the away from it all. The rain increases until it thunders, until it shakes the car, until it shakes the both of them, until its rhythm snaps and the air falls still silent against the glass.

Timmy shudders. Armie has dug half moons into his shoulders.

Armie takes a second to recover, before getting a hand in around Timmy, fast and desperate, he calls it looming thunder. Timmy slumps against Armie’s chest when he comes down, trying to untangle themselves, but too limp, too breathless, unable to see through all of the static.

“Shit.” Armie curses, looking up to see a car turning down the lane, with burning white headlight beams, casting them all exposed in its glow. He pulls Timmy and himself down flat against the seat, and looks like he starts praying.

He waits a good minute before he lets them sit up again, when the darkness they find themselves faced with seems desperate to swallow them. Timmy feels strange and listless, like his body’s just pooled up in the backseat, hair falling free, blouse slipping off one shoulder, skirt still hitched up too high around his thighs.

“Jesus Christ.” Armie says and pulls up his zipper. He fusses with his hair in the rear view mirror; Timmy lets himself smile at the thought.

“I need a cigarette.” He says, checking his pockets.“Yeah.” Timmy nods, too drawn out and hazy to really process what he’s saying.“You okay?” Armie asks him, like he isn’t the one jittering on the edge of nervous panic. “Yeah.” Timmy promises him. “Just... need a minute.” “Yeah.” Armie nods. “Me too.”

Timmy watches from the backseat as he climbs out of the car and begins to head off down the road, lighting his cigarette. He stops to stare up at the moon, breathing in slow. Timmy suddenly can’t fight off the urge to know what’s in Armie’s head — what makes him tick like that. And he’s not scared, or at least in the moment, he’s not concerned that if he lets himself get close, that Armie’ll look deeply into him too, and find something worth looking at, or far worse — something worth ignoring.

Still, he buttons his blouse back up, slides his skirt back down his thighs, and stumbles out of the passenger door, looking around into the desolate midnight, before hurrying after Armie.

“You want a cigarette.” Armie tells him, as he approaches. “That’s what you came out here for.”

“No, Armie.” Timmy narrows his eyes. “I came out here to talk, ‘cos...” He shakes his head. “I promised you we’d talk, and look at you, you need to talk.”

“Yeah.” Armie rolls his eyes, “And look at you, you need a cigarette.”

“Well, maybe I do.” Timmy sighs, and lets Armie slide one between his fingertips. “Come on.” He ushers Armie away from the road and into the fields. “Talk to me.”

They’re sat in the long grass, smoking through a packet of cigarettes, staring up at the stars.

Armie’s hand is there, right where Timmy wants to reach for it, but not yet, not tonight, he thinks. He needs to see through the static; he needs to see through Armie, and try and make sense of what he finds on the other side.

Timmy thinks Armie is getting calmer now, or at least calmer by the cigarette. He thinks briefly back to all the promises they had made themselves — getting home early, no real party, and never doing this again. God, Timmy swallows resistance in his throat. He wants to curl up at Armie’s side; he wants to feel his warmth; he wants to close his eyes and pretend like this all won’t have consequences.

The moon creeps back from behind a cloud, and bathes them both in silver. For a moment, they’re kings, and Timmy feels fucking invincible, but the moon glow is light enough to make the moment truly clear. Timmy looks to Armie and sees panic, sees anxiety wrought into his features; sees a boy whom he thought invincible, and starts see the cracks in him. He wonders if under the same moonlight, Armie is beginning to see the cracks in him. He wonders who they are now, when ‘strangers’ has extended its use.

“Bad memories.” Armie says, clicking his lighter on and off again — it’s something to do with his hands while he speaks, something to do with his hands while he panics, and Timmy can clear as day see that panic in him, even if he isn’t quite ready to show it to him yet.

“Mm?” Timmy nods, leaning closer.

“We’d always go...” He pauses for a moment. “I don’t know how you grew up, how you came to terms with who you are, but when I was like sixteen, seventeen and was fucking boys...” He slides a glance over in Timmy’s direction.

“Yeah.” Timmy nods; he remembers the feeling. Riding the peak of something, but never quite getting there — that was what sixteen always felt like, before he had the right words to use to describe himself.

“And we could never go my place or their place, so, it always... his car when I was a little younger, mine when I started to grow up. So this was how it would always be — we’d drive out into the middle of fucking nowhere, where everything’s moonlight, and no one in the world could find us, far enough away we forget the city exists, forget the whole world exists, and pull up somewhere secluded, and...” Armie trails off, gesturing with his hands.

“We got caught once.” He finishes. “Car driving by, all white headlights, and feeling fucking blinded, and feeling so... like here I am with this boy, and neither of us are really old enough to know what we’re doing yet, but fucking hell, I wanna kiss him, so here I am kissing him, and...”

Armie swallows, “Guy looked like he wanted to fucking kill us. Farmer type. I suppose we were technically on his land or something, but that wasn’t what he was bothered about. We had to drive, but he kept following us, and I kept feeling like I was going to throw up, like when is this going to stop, where can I even go, because in my mind it was like — he can’t follow me home, he can’t know the people I know.”

“Nobody could know.” He adds as an aside. Timmy smiles — he remembers that feeling.

“But,” Armie continues. “He got bored after a while. Suppose there’s only so long you can chase two teenagers in circles through the dark. But even when he left, and it was just us again, I couldn’t —... my heart was beating so hard it fucking hurt all night. I couldn’t sleep that night, I couldn’t sleep the next night, and I stopped going... with boys for a while.”

Armie chews on a frown. “I wanted to forget it. Not that I was attracted to boys, but the... the consequences, the... I was fucking terrified. So, I buried it, because fucking hell, I was seventeen, who could I talk to? So, I was just with girls for a while, and I mean, I do like girls, but I was still lying to myself. It was like when I saw a guy I liked, when I saw a guy that looked at me at a bar or whatever, I couldn’t even look at him, like something bad was instantly going to happen, like the whole world was instantly gonna know. And I was so scared of that. I don’t know why.”

“What changed?” Timmy asks, tentative around this level of honesty, tentative because he feels obliged to extend such openness himself.

“I met a guy I couldn’t lie to myself about.” Armie frowns. “Fucking thought he was ‘the one’ and all, but I mean, I was seventeen, and it was all manic romantic, and he was so... so confident, you know? Like I didn’t have to be confident in myself, because he had that covered for the both of us, and I saw him, and I wanted to be like him. I saw that he was happy, I saw that he was free, and I wanted to live like that. So we started going out around here in cars again, no one ever caught us, and we started kissing in public, in bars and that, sometimes I’d hold his hand. And it felt fucking impossible, like we were defying the whole world on such a simple but honest level.”

“What happened?”

“Well, I thought that he was happy, I thought that he was free, but he wasn’t. I thought that he was brave, but he was terrified. He was all manic and bright just as a mask, and... that’s not what ended it, because I loved him, if he was scared and sad and wouldn’t get out of bed, I’d look after him, of course I’d be there for him. But I tried and tried and tried and _tried,_ Timmy. And he wouldn’t let me. I felt so fucking bad for months, but... you can only do so much for other people. You can only do so much as they let you.”

Timmy sat there silent for a moment, finishing his cigarette; he wondered how to say it — the truth bundled up like a knot inside his chest. He wondered how he might let Armie in; he wondered if that even was the right thing to do.

“But it was different after him, ‘cos by just being with him, being open with him and around him, you know? I had queer mates by then, and friends that genuinely didn’t mind it, so there was no going back to hiding it.” Armie continues, looking over to Timmy. “What was it like for you? Being sixteen, seventeen, especially, dressing the way you do?”

Timmy grimaces. “I mean it started gradually, the... how I dress thing... you know, I mean, I was sixteen and lonely and conceited, and fucking crazy a little bit, and I wanted to make people look at me, especially make people look at me the way they didn’t want to look at me. There’s power in that, isn’t there? Control. Not like I wanted to control the world, but just like... how I felt... so lost, you know, being queer in this kind of society, powerless, maybe, especially when you’re that young and sheltered inside this very heterosexual way of living, family, friends, all that. So maybe it was about taking power back, maybe it was just about making straight guys look twice at me. Anyway, it started with makeup, my friend taught me how, let me borrow her clothes when it started being more than makeup, you know? And she was always so... never asking questions, but I think that was more the nature of friendship, than any kind of statement on what kind of person she was. Like I’d have died for her. It’s fucking like that at sixteen.”

“Yeah.” Armie nods. “Are you still mates?”

“Yeah.” Timmy nods, sighing, “But not like that, not like we were before. I mean, she’s moved now. She’s gonna make something herself, I can feel it. But I see her around sometimes, and her mum always says ‘Hi’ to me in the street, you know?”

He takes a breath, “And anyway I stopped relying on her for the confidence, the means, to look like this. The way I look, it’s not just dressing up, or jokes, or trying to say something, it’s me, you know? Well, maybe I am trying to say something with it, but not saying something for the sake of saying it, I’m saying this is who I am and fucking deal with it, and I’d love to say I’m one hundred percent okay with it, but I’m not am I? How can I be? When it’s kicked me out of my band, when —“

“The way you are didn’t kick you out of that band. A homophobic asshole kicked you out of that band.” Armie tells him, firmly.

Timmy manages a smile.

“Problem with being like me, like us, I guess, being queer, or I suppose being more like me, being fucking conceited and queer...” Timmy trails off, Armie snorts, “Is that... God, everyone you know, and everyone who knows you, is just someone you either had slept with, are currently sleeping with, or are trying to sleep with. I mean... I don’t talk to proper _straight_ straight guys, look at me, I’m not asking to get punched. And I have the same thing with girls, just on a lesser level, ‘cos I like girls too, but not as much as I like boys, and I didn’t used to be sure whether that was alright, but fuck it, it’s what it is, isn’t it? You’re the way you are, and what the fuck can I do about that?”

Armie nods. “Exactly.”

“Maybe I’m just not good at being friendly,” Timmy makes a face, “But it can feel really isolating sometimes. Like everyone you know is just... interested in your body, and you and your fucking feelings is just a facet of that.”

“I don’t look at you like that.” Armie offers up, voice soft and gentle, like sharing a secret. Timmy smiles. “Or at least I don’t mean to. I care about you and your feelings—“

“God, Armie, I know and it’s fucking killing me.” Timmy laughs, staring up at the moon. “I mean, we’re here at what probably like one in the morning, just talking, you’re not doing this because you don’t care, and if this really was one long facade to fuck me again or whatever, I’d say yeah, for that level of effort you deserved it.”

“But I sort of...” Timmy trails off, “I don’t know, in a way I lost my friends when I lost my band, even though, obviously they weren’t proper friends, but it feels like the closest thing I had, you know? That’s why everything feels so fucked this week, and God, Armie, I swear I’ve been letting guys fuck me just for the company of it— not you, I mean... I...”

Armie sighs. “Fucking hell, Timmy, are we not mates? Can you not just come find me when you need someone.”

“Find you where?” Timmy laughs. “You can’t expect me to know you if you don’t tell me anything.”

“I’ll show you where I live on the way back.” He says. “You can come over when you want.” Timmy arches his eyebrows. “Do your parents know? About... you...”

“Yeah, I mean...” Armie frowns. “My dad doesn’t like it, but he accepts it, and that’s enough, you know? And my mum... she’s... she’s so... you know what mums are like.”

Timmy nods.“Do yours not know?” He asks, almost holding his breath.“My parents don’t really know anything about me.” Timmy admits suddenly. “That can’t help with the feeling isolated thing.” Armie makes a face. “God, don’t go all therapist on me, alright?” Timmy shoves him, gently. Armie only grins. “Sorry.”

“I don’t know which rumors you heard about me, but... the rich parents who are barely home and barely care one is true.” He says, sheepishly.

“That one about you being spoilt.” Armie smiles. “Yeah.” Timmy rolls his eyes. “Whatever.”

“So they don’t know?” Armie clarifies. “Is that because you’re keeping it from them or are they just so... distant...”

“I don’t know.” Timmy laughs. “I really don’t know. I don’t even know how it’d come up in conversation. If it comes up, it comes up, I guess—“

“Do they not...” Armie frowns. “I mean, see you... the way you look.”

“I don’t sit at home with makeup on just for my own amusement, Armie.” Timmy narrows his eyes. “Girls don’t even do that; I swear to God.”

“I’ve only ever seen you with make up on.” Armie notes. “Only ever seen you like this.”

“Mm.” Timmy nods, “And that’s how it is for the large, large majority of people.”

Armie smiles. “I’d like to see you without it, one day.”

“Yeah.” Timmy laughs. “One day.” He thinks about the future, and how all of this static and limbo makes it seem so distant and impossible.

“We should get back...” Armie begins to say, finishing his cigarette.

Timmy observes the distance still left between them, and God, in that moment, he trusts Armie more than he’s ever wanted to let himself trust anyone, but he’s got this want to let himself love him, and his veins are fucking singing with it.

“Yeah.” Timmy nods. “Just one more thing, though. Your band and friends, are they straight or?”

“Well as far as I know, the guys from the band are, but it’s such a non-issue, you know? They’re actual decent guys—“

Timmy snorts.

“When you get to know them.” Armie sighs. “But I can take you to meet my queer friends, if you want.”

“No,” Timmy says quickly, “I don’t want to imagine the amount of them I’ll have inevitably slept with.”

“Half of them are lesbians, so—“

“Not unheard of.” Timmy cuts him off. “Happened once. She decided she was a lesbian after she slept with me, which I’m taking as a compliment, for the sake of my own ego.”

Armie shakes his head. “I’ll take you to meet them some day.” He says again, and Timmy thinks of more future promises; he wonders if they’ll ever come true, and how they’re supposed to.

“Come on, though,” He says, getting to his feet, and offering Timmy a hand up, “Let’s get back before before it’s daylight.”

Timmy smiles. He doesn’t let go of Armie’s hand once he takes it, and Armie doesn’t either. He’s glad for the darkness, for their solitude, because if the world could see him like this, if only he could see himself like this, he wouldn’t ever know what to say.

They pull apart again to get into the car. Armie’s got the key in the ignition, and two hands on the steering wheel. Timmy’s got two hands against his cheeks, wiping the sleep from his eyes, and thinking about waking up and feeling fearless.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I DO NOT OWN THIS STORY. 
> 
> This is an adaptation from an original work posted by Babyspiders on Wattpad, all credit to her ( and before anyone comes after me. It was allowed). If you want to go check her work. She also has a poetry Instagram acc:
> 
> https://www.instagram.com/futile.devicez/
> 
> She is one of my all time favorite fanfic writers. I can't tell you enough how much I ADORE this story and her writing in general.  
> I did this for my enjoyment. I just really wanted to see Armie and Timmy's characters in this setting. Then I wanted more people to know this beautiful queer story. I'm aware comments are rewarding for writers, and since I did not write this I do not deserve them (though I still want to know what you think of it). I'll let them on for now and see what you think would be best.
> 
> Timmy Glitter Image Source: https://mypinkcactus.tumblr.com/post/185882787696/in-color-because-why-not


	5. V.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> they are so cute, aren't they?

It tastes bittersweet, but it’s a feeling Timmy wants all over him; he thinks about Armie through the morning and evening both. He’s a caterpillar, not yet a butterfly, having gotten lost in cocoon.

He wants to write songs about this. He wants to write songs about everything. He wants to tell the world his story and have it listen. But no words come. There are no words for this. He sits by the windowsill and they have nothing but sunlight, nothing but moonlight, nothing but an hour on the clock, nothing but ink in the barrel.

There are no words for them.

Timmy supposes they’ll have to talk about it eventually and stomach the hard truths of such a conversation, but Timmy doesn’t know how to do this, at least not when he wants someone to stick around. Because fuck, Timmy wants Armie to stick around, more than he’s wanted anyone to stick around before.

 _’Permanence.’_ He writes on the page. _’You taught me what it means and why I really should be afraid of it.’_

He gets up again, it’s getting late, the sun’s getting low in the sky, and Timmy’s both idle and mindless. He gets a crazy idea in his head that Friday evening — something about going around to Armie’s and seeing what he’ll find. He supposes Armie at least proposed it in theory, but still it feels strange, unsettling. Timmy has never found himself chasing after boys before. He’s always liked it the other way around.

But he makes himself look pretty nonetheless, because he’s nothing if not vain and insecure, and growing quickly infatuated with a boy who he wants to paint dark and saturnine with trouble. He doesn’t dress up too much; he settles with tight jeans and a blouse, too big for him, sweeping off the shoulder. He calls that pretty. As pretty as boys should get in the city, at least if they know what’s good for them. Timmy, of course, doesn’t.

He’s got a cigarette in hand, a mad idea in his head, as he trails out onto the street that evening. He hopes to finish the smoke on the way to Armie’s — he calls it an attempt to calm his nerves, because he’s not going to deny that he doesn’t have them, he’s just going to deny that he knows what they’re there for.

He lingers on the corner of Armie’s street, sheltered in the ballooning amber glow of a streetlight, his skin looks almost translucent, too pale, too faded. He wonders what Armie will make of him. Turning up, asking for what he wants, and maybe just getting it. Timothée Chalamet doesn’t ask. Timothée Chalamet just gets. He supposes that’s what the rumors say; he supposes that’s what people like Nick think of him, and here he is, looking mad enough to change it.

Timmy finishes his cigarette, stubs it out into the gutter, and looks only once, before tearing across the street. Armie’s house is a house in the street like any other, built up tall with three stories, and squashed into a row of terraces. He lingers by the front gate and thinks about ringing the doorbell, but looks up and catches sight of a cigarette smoking in an ashtray on the first floor windowsill.

He waits, watches, curiosity, too bad to know what’s good for himself, and sure enough Armie appears a moment later, taking the cigarette, and inhaling slowly. His eyes meet Timmy’s, as they scan the street.

He bursts out with laughter, leaning out over the windowsill. “Hey. What’re you doing here?”

“Looking for you.” Timmy shoots up, trying to sharpen his tone, trying to sound like he’s in control of his emotions, trying to sound like he’s getting somewhere.

“You found me.” Armie says, and stands up a little. “You coming in?”

“You going out?” Timmy asks, leaning against the gate post.

“What?” Armie snorts. “‘Cos you’re dressed up all nice and you want the world to see it?”

“I dressed up nice for you, idiot.” Timmy says, but not loud enough so that Armie can hear it.

“Hey?” Armie asks, leaning back out over the windowsill.

Timmy shakes his head.

“We’ll go out.” Armie says after a moment. “I know a place. I know a few people who’ll be there.”

“Please tell me not Nick—“Armie laughs. “You’re the one that wanted to be in a band with him.”

Timmy shakes his head. “I don’t want to be in a band with him, I want to be in a band with you, idiot.”

“It’s still the same band.” Armie says, frowning.“I know.” Timmy bites his lip. “But it makes a difference.”

Armie nods, like he understands, and Timmy appreciates the gesture, appreciates the sentiment behind it if nothing else. Armie has got a good heart, and he’s certain that not a soul in the world can argue otherwise.

“Give me a couple of minutes.” Armie says out of the window, before stubbing his cigarette out and disappearing into his room. Timmy waits by the gate, and thinks about lighting himself another cigarette, but he doesn’t want to waste his last few, at least not if he can smile and look pretty and bum one off Armies’ later.

He’s not waiting long, at the very least, before Armie emerges from the front door, shouting a vague goodbye back through the house, before locking the door behind him, and meeting Timmy with a grin.

“You coming to find me...” He trails off. “That’s... something, isn’t it?” Timmy flushes red. “Don’t push it.” He warns him. Armie snorts. “If I didn’t push you, how would we ever get anywhere?”

Timmy frowns, and tries his best to look sour, but Armie snakes an arm around his waist, and Timmy feels himself melting into the warmth.

“You smell good.” He tells him, before he can think better of it. Armie grins. “Yeah?” “Oh, don’t get all...” Timmy trails off, pushing him away. Armie only laughs at him. “I’m teasing.”

“Yeah?” Timmy mimics, rolling his eyes. Armie shakes his head, and unlocks his car.

“Where are we going anyway?” Timmy asks, curious, but not curious enough to think twice about climbing into the passenger seat.

Armie only smiles at him. “Some bar. Know a couple of mates that’ll be there.” “Mm.” Timmy nods, “And you’re driving, so you’re not drinking? At a bar?” “Someone’s got to look after you.” Armie says, and turns the key in the ignition. Timmy frowns, shaking his head. “I don’t need looking after.”

“That’s such bullshit, Timmy.” Armie says, and doesn’t even try to counter it.

Timmy rolls his eyes, and presses his cheek against the window. “Which friends are these anyway?”

Armie shrugs. “You’ll meet them in a bit.”

“Yeah, but I mean...” He trails off. “Are these the queer ones, or the—“

“Yeah.” Armie says. “Does that make you nervous?”

“Yeah.” Timmy admits, before he can stop himself. “I don’t feel like people like me very much.”

“I don’t think that has much to do with whether they’re queer or not.” Armie lets out a sigh.

“I don’t like it when I meet people and they already think they know who I am.” Timmy says solemnly.

“I vaguely knew who you were.” Armie reminds him.

“But you didn’t take it for the gospel fucking truth.” Timmy sighs. “You wanted to figure it out for yourself.” He gets a twist in his stomach, and remembers then why he’s still here, why they keep drifting back together, what this all means.

“Trust me.” Armie says. “They’re nice people, I mean, fuck, Timmy, you might even like some of them.”

“I mean, yeah, you’ve gotta have one mate who’ll like me.” Timmy frowns. Armie rolls his eyes. “I kind of just wish it could be the two of us.”

“You wanted to go out.” Armie reminds him.

“I did.” Timmy nods. “‘Cause if we’d stayed in, what would we have done? Fuck? What else is there to do? And I want this... I want this to be more than that.” He spits his words out and leaves them there where they can threaten the both of them.

Armie’s lips hug a smile. “There’s more things to do at home together than fuck, Timmy, you just have issues.”

Timmy rolls his eyes. “Shut the fuck up.”

Everything feels like smoke and mirrors inside — the kind of heavy that Timmy doesn’t know what to do with. Sure enough, he’s got Armie’s arm pulled in close around his waist, and this is the kind of place where that’s allowed, welcomed, but still he gets this heaviness inside his chest, an unsettling sensation, like he’s seventeen all over again.

It’s all loud music — the kind without any real substance to it. As far as Timmy’s concerned, the world as he knows it in that moment, is just touch and sound. Until Armie points, and the lights paint the room clear.

“There.” He says, gesturing to a vague crowd of people. “God.” Timmy says, and looks up hopelessly in Armie’s direction.“You’re not still scared, are you?” Armie frowns. “Me? Scared? Never” Timmy promises him.“God, that’s such a fucking lie.” Armie says, but drags them over nonetheless.

Timmy hangs back while Armie does the talking, lets someone else put a drink in front of him, lets someone else smile for him. He’s pressed into Armie’s side as much as he’s able; he feels young and dumb and stupid, and wondering, just wondering, how in the span of a few weeks, everything’s clicked, and everything’s fallen into place like this.

He reaches for Armie’s hand under the table. Armie smirks at him, but doesn’t say a word.

“So, I’m curious...” There’s a boy called Olly, who’s openly effeminate enough to make Timmy instantly feel comfortable around him. “Are you two a thing?”

Timmy’s hand twitches in Armie’s. Armie smirks.“We haven’t spoken about it yet.” Armie says for him. Timmy sighs in relief. Olly eyes the both of them. Timmy takes another drink.

There’s a girl with a name Timmy can’t quite pronounce who’s lovely and smiles too often, but who’s close enough with Armie to make Timmy jealous. He feels stupid. Jealous. Jealous. Jealous of all things. Jealous with their hands together. Jealous when this is all their secret. Fucking hell.

He’s not sure who he is anymore, when the group of mates all become laughter and faces, and he gets up and realizes nobody’s said anything judgmental about him, and Armie is smiling, like he knew this all along. And Timmy catches somebody’s eye from across the bar, dark, twinkling. Somebody he recognizes. Somebody who knows him. Somebody who can see him now.

“Who’s that?” Armie asks, whispering into his side. Timmy realizes too late that they’re still holding hands.

“Just someone...” Timmy trails off. “Someone I knew a long time ago.” “Mm.” Armie understands, just from the way he says it, never mind what he says.

“I’ve had too much to drink.” Timmy says, though he’s hardly had anything to drink at all, but he feels strange and paralyzed nonetheless, and calls it as easy an excuse as any.

“Come on.” Armie says, and makes some half-hearted excuse about going to get some air, and Timmy’s mind blanks out until they end up in the alleyway around the back, and everything is stardust and garbage.

“You okay?” Armie asks him again, and really means it.

Timmy frowns. “I don’t really know.” Everything’s mad inside his head, a maze of thought after thought, after thought. He can’t draw lines between them anymore.

“Who did you see?” Armie asks.

Timmy shakes his head vehemently. “Armie, it’s all so fucked up, it’s all so—“ And Armie’s arms are around him, everything is warm like a world made of elsewheres.

“Can we...” Timmy trails off, trying to think straight, trying to pull himself together, trying not to cry on the one boy he’s ever cared about’s shoulder, and not just for the sake of not ruining his make up. “Just go back to yours...” He says.

Armie nods. “Sure, yeah—“

“Fuck, I’m sorry for making you go out, and then, and then—“ Timmy hides his face as Armie pulls away. “There’s just a lot of... shit, a lot of... things I don’t talk about, never told anybody about, and...” He peals his hands away.

Armie offers him the best smile he can give. “Tell me.” He says. “Tell me.” “But we’re out now—“

“I don’t care about being out, I don’t even care about those people that are vaguely my friends, I care about you, and I care about how you’re feeling. So we’ve been out what an hour? Fine. Let’s go back again. Let’s talk. Let’s fucking sit in silence if that’s what you need to do, but we’re going back, because sometimes Timmy, I feel like you know you’re not okay, but you need someone else to tell you that it’s okay, it’s okay to feel like that.”

“So this is you telling me that?”

“Yeah.” Armie reaches for his hand again. “This is me telling you that.”

They sit in the car for a while, just watching the streets, watching the world wind down, watching the city wake up. Timmy’s in the passenger seat, dabbing at his face in the rear view mirror with a tissue; he’s not yet sure whether he’s trying to tidy up his smudged make up, or wipe it all off completely.

Armie is smoking a cigarette out of the driver’s side window, lost in thought, thinking about something Timmy assumes that he doesn’t want to think about. He supposes that everything is complicated, now they’ve started making real conversations, and not just noises.

“Everything feels strange.” Timmy says, deciding on wiping his face clean entirely. Armie turns to look at him. “How come?”

Timmy only smiles, leaning back in the passenger seat. “Like nothing was ‘supposed to’ be like this, at least not the way I was living, but here we are, and here I still am, and I... someone I saw... was a big part of my life a few years ago. I thought that I’d almost let him destroy me once.”

He looks over to Armie. “It doesn’t feel real seeing him again, and seeing him how he is, because we turn... we turn people into monsters in our heads sometimes.”

Armie nods.

“We like to forget that everyone’s just human at the end of the day, because then it makes it easier. If people are monsters, they want to hurt us, we can hurt them, we can’t trust them. It’s all...” Timmy gestures tirelessly. “I wish I could turn off my mind sometimes.”

Armie smiles, finishing his cigarette. “I don’t know about that, but I am very good at being distracting.”

Timmy rolls his eyes. “Yeah, Armie, I know. Half of the time, you’re the problem.” Armie raises his eyebrows. “I’m the problem?” Timmy flushes, shaking his head. “Not now, Armie.” “But when we get home?” Armie asks. “We’re going to talk?”

“Yeah.” Timmy nods, small and terrified. “‘Cause there’s a few things we need to talk about.” “Yeah.” Timmy agrees again, looking to disappear inside of himself.

Armie gets two hands back on the steering wheel but they remain static, pulled up watching the city go by, watching the moon paint silver across the twilight skies, watching Timmy twist and tie his head into knots, only to breathe and let it all out again, watching Armie tap his fingers mercilessly against the wheel, thinking, always thinking, but never thinking anything through.

“I’m scared.” Timmy says, suddenly, meeting Armie’s gaze. “I’m gonna say it, ‘cause one of us needs to.”

“Yeah.” Armie sighs. “I’m a little bit scared too.” “Is that a good thing?” Timmy asks.

“I don’t know.” Armie tells him. “I don’t know yet.” He drums his fingers against the steering wheel.

“Drive us home.” Timmy says, grown impatient. Armie nods, inhales slowly, and begins to accelerate.

The city bleeds together on the way home, dark and light muddied together like a mess of watercolor and shine. There’s a life to it, though, Timmy supposes — he calls the city a living breathing being, and claims that he knows her. She’s cut deep on street corners, bleeding in gutters, she’s breathing, and when they move over her, she shudders. He likes to think that the city knows him too; he calls her a ramshackle adoptive mother, someone to look out for him, beyond the moon. Of course, the city only lasts so long, and in the disheveled mess of land where city becomes suburbs, Timmy lets himself feel lost again.

“Is your family home?” Timmy asks suddenly, as they pull down onto Armie’s road.

“Yeah, my sister and my mum.” Armie says, pretending he’s focusing on parking. “But I’m not letting them get near you.” He grins. “I’ll save you from that kind of awkward conversation.”

“Save yourself you mean.” Timmy corrects him. Armie shrugs. “That too.”

The world stalls as Armie parks the car into place, Timmy suddenly feels static again in the passenger seat. He looks over at Armie, who’s more nervous than he wants to let on, and wonders how this all ever came to be.

“Armie.” Timmy says softly.Armie looks up. “Kiss me.” Timmy tells him, a little lost and lonely.

Armie does, but only briefly; he’s making himself be careful again, but still Timmy tries to breathe in as much of him as he can. He wants Armie’s scent, he wants Armie’s hands, he wants as many pieces as he can use to remember him by.

Armie tucks Timmy’s hair behind his ears, and pulls away.

Timmy gets this strangled feeling in his chest when he looks at Armie; it’s something that he doesn’t dare try to translate into words.

“Come on then.” Armie says suddenly, shoving his car keys into his pocket, and climbing out onto the pavement. Timmy lingers for just a moment, before doing the same.

The world smells strange, Timmy notes when he gets back to it, like an omen, a forewarning; he supposes that it’s just about to rain. He meets Armie’s eyes, and they talk this strange language, one without words, and yet without meaning. All he knows is reassurance; all he needs is the little twitches and quirks in Armie’s expression. Sometimes he wants to know this boy so much that he thinks it might just kill the both of them.

Armie unlocks the front door, and tries his best to quietly drag them both inside, but of course, Timmy’s wearing ridiculous shoes, so he wastes enough time struggling with them, to attract unwanted attention.

“Armie, what—“ There’s a voice, but one that stops dead in its tracks soon enough.

Timmy chances looking up, and finds what he assumes to be Armie’s sister. He makes a bid for an awkward smile, and finally manages to kick his other shoe off.

“Hi.” She says, looking between Timmy and Armie for an extended moment.

“Hi.” Timmy nods, looking to Armie for help.

“Yeah,” Armie makes a face, “Bye.” He grabs Timmy by the hand and pulls him upstairs. Timmy can feel her eyes on the both of them as they leave, but he’s not sure that Armie cares at all, and the sensation feels exhilarating.

Still, he doesn’t truly breathe easy until they’re safely inside Armie’s room with the door bolted shut. Everything still feels manic inside his head, and he desperately needs another cigarette, but he climbs onto the edge of the bed, and just lets himself sit and breathe for a moment.

Armie tosses him a glance, before taking his jacket off, and retrieving his pack of cigarettes from the pocket. Timmy smiles at him, and Armie smiles right back. He lights himself one by the door, just to make Timmy wait, before sauntering over to the bed, climbing into Timmy’s space, and putting another to his lips.

Timmy lets Armie light his, with Armie’s weight pressed against him, he’s struggling to breathe, but glad to let go of everything, when he falls back to lie against the mattress.

“This is what I mean when I say you’re distracting.” Timmy says. Armie only grins.

He waits a moment before he says anything else, anything a little more difficult to stomach. Timmy almost wishes they could stay in limbo forever, but he knows that’s a surefire way to get himself hurt again. There’s no line left between them anymore, and he’s set alight with a desperate need to draw it.

“What do you want to start with?” Armie asks. “What happened at the bar... or... this... or...” He trails off.

“Fuck.” Timmy mumbles around his cigarette. “It all...” He frowns.

“The guy at the bar.” Timmy breathes in deep. “I knew him when I was seventeen. Or at least, he knew me, ‘cos it turns out, I didn’t know him for shit in the end. And if you want to point the blame on someone to say why I’m like the way I am, it’d be him, but I don’t think that’s fair or how people really work.”

“His name’s... no, fuck it, you don’t get to know his name, people don’t get to know his name, because he’s not... it doesn’t matter who he is or who he was, the point is, I guess, that he could have been anyone.”

“What happened?” Armie asks, tentative with his words, like he’s almost afraid of the answer.

“Well, I was seventeen and stupid and just accepting the way I was, and ready to fucking fall in love with any guy that breathed near me— and he was just that, a guy who breathed near me.”

“And you loved him?” Armie frowned. “For real?”

“I don’t know.” Timmy frowns. “As close as I ever got to for real, I guess. But it was about trust, as I understand it, that’s what loving someone’s about, isn’t it? Trusting them with everything, and not just trusting them with it, but _wanting_ to trust them with it, wanting them to have you, to know you, and not just for the sake of being kept, but as this thing that goes both ways. It didn’t go both ways then, that was what I didn’t get.”

“I’m sorry—“

“No, Armie.” Timmy sighs. “Don’t apologize, ‘cause you’re not him, and it’s not your fault. He treated me like shit, he broke my trust, and I hate it, but he really fucked me up, so much that I’m still fucked up now, so much that I still am so terrified to trust guys now.”

“So it’s a defense mechanism.” Armie says suddenly. “The fucking every guy in the city but never letting anyone ever really know you.”

“Don’t fucking psychoanalyze me, Armie.” Timmy rolls his eyes.

“I’m not.” Armie sighs, laying back against the mattress beside him. “But you’re letting me know you.” He says softly, like it’s a secret, even between them.

Timmy nods slowly. “Yeah.” He admits. “I can’t help myself.” Armie grins, turning onto his side. “Am I just that irresistible?”

“Armie...” Timmy sighs, sitting up a little. “It’s like... fucking hell, Armie, I’m terrified, because I trust you, and I can’t help that, I can’t decide not to trust you, because I do trust you, and I do fancy you, and it’s... all... fuck...” He gestures with his hands. “You really fucked me up.” Timmy thinks for a moment. “In a good way. In a mostly good way. I think. Fuck.”

“You fucked me up too.” Armie admits. “Do you think... of all the people in the world... it was supposed to be you?”

Timmy snorts. “Me, of all people. I know—“

“I’m not saying you’re terrible, because you’re not, Jesus Christ, Timmy, you’re beautiful, you’re fucking smarter than I think anyone’s ever given you credit for, and you listen, you get things, because I don’t think you’re used to be listened to. You make me happy, you know, seeing you. But it’s difficult, that’s what I’m saying, it’s difficult, because we’re both messy, and everything’s complicated just because it’s there.”

“I like complicated.” Timmy says with a smirk. Armie shakes his head. “I can tell.”

Timmy reaches over and kisses him again. This time he’s in control, with his hands tight in Armie’s hair, so Armie can’t pull away when he wants to, when he wants to let go of everything, when he wants to feel safe.

“Stop being careful.” Timmy tells him, when he finally pulls away, cheeks red and flustered. “It’s boring.”

“I can stop being careful...” Armie tells him. “When we work out what this is. Because I’m being careful, not just to look after you, but to look after myself. And Olly was right at the bar, what are we, Timmy? And I know it scares you, ‘cause it fucking scares me too, but we need to work it out.”

Timmy sighs, thinking for a moment, before beginning the only way he feels he can.

“I was jealous at the bar.” He says. “It felt weird, because I don’t... I don’t get jealous... not like that... not like... and it was fucking stupid, because you were just talking to one of your friends, and she’s gay, so it’s not like... but the whole point is that it doesn’t make sense. And then...”

Timmy trails off, thinking for a moment. “I feel bad even saying this, but it’s... not it’s... before, like last week, the start of this week, and I still met a couple of guys, it just felt... strange, like I felt bad, Jesus Christ, I’m Timothée Chalamet and I felt bad sleeping with random guys, and you know why, Armie? You. Because I was thinking it’d upset you, and I felt bad.”

Armie draws in a sigh. “It doesn’t _upset_ me.” He frowns. “I’d just rather you didn’t... I mean... I worry about you, fuck, Timmy, I worry about you. I worry about what some random guy is going to do or say to you.”

“I don’t need looking after.” Timmy says suddenly. “I know.” Armie sighs.

“But I think sometimes I want you to.” Timmy looks up. “I like... I like when we’re in a bar or whatever, and some guy’s looking at me weird and you put your arm around my waist, or when you told me what I needed to hear tonight, about being upset, and it’s not that I can’t look after myself, because fucking hell, I can, okay? I’m Timothée fucking Chalamet, I...”

Armie rolls his eyes.

“But just... it’s nice to know I have you, I have someone that I trust and trusts me, and I can count on you.”

Armie pulls him close. “You’re getting real fucking soppy now.” “Yeah, if you breathe a word to anyone I’ll kill you.” Timmy says into his chest. “No.” Armie smiles. “You won’t.” “Yeah.” Timmy sighs. “I won’t.” “This is something.” Armie dares to say. “Yeah.” Timmy nods; he knows only that for sure.“I just don’t know what to call it yet.” He continues. Timmy agrees.

“And I’m not saying don’t fuck other guys, because you’re you, and I... just... don’t forget about me, don’t forget that this is... more... isn’t it?” Armie meets his eyes. “And tell me about it. If you get with other people.”

“Why because you wanna get off on it?” Timmy makes a face. “Yeah.” Armie kisses his cheek. “Something like that.”

Timmy sighs, stretched out across the bed. He feels strange and distant — himself and someone else all at once. Armie is someone he’s both never known less and never known more. They lie back on the bed together and share these moments that Timmy just doesn’t yet have words for.

“Stay.” Armie says after a while, sitting up only to stub out his cigarette. “Overnight.” “Huh?” Timmy frowns. “Stay.” Armie says again. He pats the bed. Timmy freezes for a moment. “I...” His words still in his throat.

“If you want.” Armie finishes.“I’m just tired.” Timmy rubs his eyes. “Yeah.” Armie nods. “Sleeping usually fixes that.” Timmy frowns. “You mean... actual sleeping? When you said stay?”

“Jesus Christ, Timmy.” Armie pulls his arm in around his shoulders. “I mean stay and do whatever you want. But no I didn’t mean let me fuck you, because then I would have just said that.”

Timmy snorts. “Yeah.” “And to be honest I’m tired too.” Armie admits. “But stay?” He asks again, his voice fragile.

“And just sleep?” Timmy turns to his side, focusing on Armie, trying to read him. “God, you’re turning me soft.”

“You’ve always been soft.” Armie tells him. “I’m just turning you honest.”

“Yeah.” Timmy sighs, staring up at the ceiling. “What does your sister think?” He says suddenly.

“What do you mean?”

“About you and all...” Timmy gestures with his hands, because part of him doesn’t want to say the word. “Being queer. Bringing boys back.”

“To be honest...” Armie makes a face. “We’ve never really talked about it, but I kind of suspect that she’s... like... into girls.”

“Mm.” Timmy nods. “So you think she gets it?”

“Yeah.” Armie agrees. “She definitely doesn’t get weird about it. Neither does mum really; she just gets embarrassing. Well, that probably does count as weird, but—“

“And your dad?” Timmy lowers his voice, daring to dig deeper.

“Not always home.” Armie picks at a thread on his t-shirt. “‘Cos of work. But I don’t really mind.”

“And does he mind?” Timmy leans closer.

“Yeah probably, a bit.” Armie sighs. “But we’ve not talked about it. I mean... he’s just... one time he said something like — ‘well if you’re attracted to boys and girls, why can’t you just date girls’ — like it’s a fucking choice, and like I’m gonna choose who I fancy based on how easy it is for him to stomach.”

“Oh, yeah.” Timmy snorts. “He’d hate me, for sure.” Armie rolls his eyes. “A little bit. Yeah.”“Yeah.” Timmy smiles, and leans in close. “I wanna kiss you again.” He tells him, like it’s a secret. “Okay.” Armie nods, and gets a hand in his hair.“But only a little.” Timmy says, “And then we’re going to sleep. Or at least I am.”

Armie smiles, and just leans in and kisses him. Timmy thinks of it like driving fast in a car in summer with all the windows down, and no one near you for miles, and suddenly a cool breeze washes over you in the heat.

“We’re going to sleep.” Armie nods, getting up from the bed. “I know your expectations and I know why you have them, but right now, Timmy, I don’t wanna fuck you, and certainly I don’t wanna make you let me fuck you. I wanna go to sleep.”

Timmy sighs, staring back up at the ceiling. “I know. I just... I can’t help being careful.”

Armie nods, walking over to his wardrobe, before pulling his shirt off. He makes a sound like he’s searching around for another.

“Keep it off.” Timmy says, amusing himself. “God.” Armie sighs, but obliges.

Armie wanders off to the bathroom, and returns a minute later in just sweatpants. Timmy sits up and tries not to think about kissing him again.

“You can borrow something to sleep in if you want.” Armie says, running a hand back through his hair.

Timmy curls his lips around a smile. “Big t-shirt?”

“Mm.” Armie nods, and gets up to fetch one.

Timmy sits on the edge of the bed and works at undoing the buttons of his blouse.

“This one?” Armie asks, holding up a black t-shirt with a faded print on it.

“Yeah.” Timmy nods, struggling to catch it, with his blouse hanging off one shoulder. “Thanks.” He frowns, bemused.

Armie only smirks. “You want anything?” He asks.

“Just you.” Timmy says, taking a moment for his words to settle before he starts laughing at himself.

“Jesus Christ.” Armie sighs.

“Yeah, him too.” Timmy smiles. “I probably need him right now.”

Armie rolls his eyes. “But honestly? You don’t want a drink or anything.”

“Armie, the only thing I want in the world right now is to maybe have another cigarette and go to sleep.”

Armie smiles. “Yeah.” He says, ruffling Timmy’s hair. “You’ve gone all soft.” “Fuck you.” Timmy says, sliding out of his jeans, and pulling Armie’s t-shirt on over his head. “Yeah.” Armie sighs. “Not tonight.” Timmy flips him the finger, and purposefully leaves his clothes in a mess on the floor.

Armie climbs into bed, dims the lights, and reaches for an ashtray and his pack of cigarettes. Timmy climbs in beside him, feeling strange and awkward and foreign, but warm in a way he doesn’t have words for, warm with Armie’s arm brushing up against his, warm in the same way that safe feels. And yet, he’s still not sure if he’s ready for the world to know him like this.

Armie lights himself a cigarette, and pulls his arm around Timmy’s shoulders, balancing the ashtray on his lap, as they’re sat up against the headboard. Timmy lights his own and tries to make this all feel normal in his head.

“Oh, we’re gonna meet as a band either today or tomorrow. But I need to call Will tomorrow morning and sort it out.” Armie says.

“Mm.” Timmy draws in a breath. “I’m sure Nick will be pleased to see me.”

Armie rolls his eyes. “He’ll warm up to you—“

“He better.”

“Either that, or he’ll hear you sing, and just have to deal with it.” Armie takes a drag of his cigarette. “‘Cause you’re fucking good.”

“Yeah.” Timmy smirks. “I am.”

“He should be honored to have you really.” Armie grins. “Timothée fucking Chalamet, in the flesh.”

“God.” Timmy groans. “You’ve got to stop with all that—“

“You say it.” Armie protests.

“I know.” Timmy sighs. “And that’s bad enough as it is.”

Armie snorts.

“Do you think if I kiss you in front of Nick he’s gonna freak out?” Timmy grins, pondering the concept.

“Not freak out, nah.” Armie shakes his head. “Just be subtly concerned and pissed off. Honestly it’s not that he doesn’t like you, and I know you like to think that ‘cos it feels more dramatic, and you’re you, but... he’s honestly just being protective, and in a way, I get it.”

“Mm.” Timmy sighs.

“‘Cause if you were fucking some... proper dodgy guy...” Armie trails off. “I’d be concerned and pissed.”

“Yeah, cause you’d be jealous.” Timmy makes a face. “That’s different— God, do you think he’s jealous—“

“ _No.”_ Armie says, very firmly. “Let’s not. Thank you.” “And anyway,” Armie says, tapping his cigarette into the ashtray, “I can be worried about you without being jealous.” “Mm.” Timmy shrugs. “I suppose.”

Armie smiles. “I know this is gonna be hard for you to hear, Timmy, but the whole world doesn’t revolve around people wanting to fuck you.”

“Fucking feels like it does.” Timmy makes a face. “You don’t have to be me and feel the way people look at me, the way people think they can treat me. It’s fucked, Armie, and I’m sorry that it’s fucked and it’s fucked me up, but it is and it has, and that’s not my fault.”

“I’m sorry.” Armie says, finishing his cigarette, waiting for Timmy to finish his, before he sets the ashtray back on the nightstand. He turns the lights down lower, and settles down into bed.

Timmy sits up for a minute longer, feeling Armie’s gaze on him. “Armie.” He says. “Yeah?” “Thank you.” Timmy says, smiling.“For what?” Armie asks.

“Everything.”

Armie flushes, trying to hide his face. “Get under the covers,” He says, “You’re gonna get cold.”

Timmy rolls his eyes, but obliges nonetheless, knowing well that Armie just wants to get his arm round him again, and Timmy lets him. Timmy wants to do nothing more in the world than let him, and that thought is both terrifying and comforting beyond his control.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I DO NOT OWN THIS STORY. 
> 
> This is an adaptation from an original work posted by Babyspiders on Wattpad, all credit to her ( and before anyone comes after me. It was allowed). If you want to go check her work. She also has a poetry Instagram acc:
> 
> https://www.instagram.com/futile.devicez/


	6. VI.

Timmy wakes up first; his mind is a time bomb, riddled with anxieties and concerns that won’t ever settle. He’s curled up into Armie’s side, and one of his arms is entirely numb, but he doesn’t mind much. He stays there for a while, just existing, listening to the sounds of the early morning.

He thinks this is entirely romantic, waking up with someone he genuinely cares about, listening to bird song, not worrying about escaping through the window or the back door. Timmy feels like he’s grown old and respectable suddenly — it’s a feeling that he doesn’t know what to do with.

But he’s nervous, he allows himself to admit it, when he stares up at the ceiling and thinks about where they go from here. And he’s not just nervous about Armie, about all of this, about waking up in bed together and thinking what the hell put them there, but about later, about Will and Nick, about singing, about playing in a band, about feeling like a part of something again.

He’s scared to give pieces of himself away sometimes, for fear that he’ll only ever get them back once they’ve been shattered. But fuck, he trusts Armie. He turns over in bed and sees Armie still peacefully asleep, and he trusts him. He trusts him. He really trusts him. Fuck, Timmy thinks, he trusts him so much that he thinks it might kill him.

“Armie.” He whispers, prodding him gently.

Armie makes a vague sleep sound, which Timmy can’t help but grin at.

“Armie.” He tries again, a little more forcefully.

Armie’s eyelids flutter open. “Hi...” He murmurs, not yet conscious enough to really process anything.

Timmy grins, brushing Armie’s hair. “Hi.” He says back. “Hi.” Armie says, closing his eyes again. “Armie.” Timmy nudges him, and his eyes shake open again. “Yeah...” He sighs, trying to focus on Timmy properly. “Hi.”

Timmy smiles at him, in a way that’s all ‘I’m awake, pay attention to me’, and Armie near enough translates perfectly.

“It’s fucking early.” Armie says, turning onto his side.

“Yeah...” Timmy nods, entrenched by a strange kind of calmness. He feels unlike himself, but a spitting image of the person he one day wants to be.

“I just woke up.” Timmy admits. “Mm.” Armie nods. “But I’m not getting out of bed yet for another hour at least.”

“Never said you have to.” Timmy smirks, brushing his fingers back through Armie’s hair. “I can think of something else for us to do.”

“Christ...” He trails off. “Don’t tell me you want it now.”

Timmy snorts. “Would you give it to me? If I wanted it.” He flutters his eyelashes.

“Don’t start talking like that.” Armie groans. “You know I’m already hard.”

“What?” Timmy rolls his eyes. “And you’d rather go and jerk off in the bathroom—”

“Well,” Armie makes a face, and pulls Timmy closer to him. “Obviously not.”

“Exactly.” Timmy grins.

“I just wanna make sure you want to do this.” Armie tells him again.

Timmy lets out a sigh. “You’re making me wanna go get off in the bathroom—“

“Shut up.” Armie sighs, getting his fingers curled tight in Timmy’s hair. “You’ve gotta be quiet, though.”

“I can do quiet.” Timmy grins. “God, Armie, what do you think of me? That I’ve never done something like this before—“

“No.” Armie tells him. “I just think that you never learned how to shut your mouth.”

And Armie gets his hand under Timmy’s t-shirt, just for the sake of watching him struggle to suppress little choked off sounds. Timmy feels his eyes go wide, like they might just pop out of their sockets; he stares up at Armie, and feels like he’s losing his mind. And fuck, he tells himself. This is what he wants. This is how he likes it.

“Is that good?” Armie asks, getting up and leaning over him; suddenly Timmy’s space is his to take, and Timmy wants to give him everything.

“Yeah.” Timmy manages a soft whine, barely able to meet Armie’s gaze.

Armie grins and gets his hands under Timmy’s t-shirt before pulling it off completely. He gets his mouth all over Timmy’s body, and Timmy just lets himself be — lets himself be holding onto shoulder blades, arms, and hair, and fingertips, leaving marks, pulling at Armie, crescent moons, crescent moons, bruises in purple and blue. The world slowly waking up behind them, this is morning, and yet there’s moonlight in their every motion.

Armie kicks his sweatpants off, so it’s just skin on skin, and Timmy spends too long thinking of something clever to say that’ll make Armie blush, so long that he just goes without saying it. He lets Armie make him wide-eyed, whimpering, in little pieces. Timmy feels like stardust all over Armie’s bed, stardust, all over Armie’s hands, a malleable energy, something that was never much of a boy at all. “How do you want it?” Armie asks him, finally giving Timmy space enough to breathe.

Timmy struggles to think for a moment, blinking up at Armie, though everything’s all fuzzy and static.

“Mm?” Armie prompts, pressing his thumb into Timmy’s jaw, and making him meet his eyes. “On your back, on your face, on top?” Armie teases. “Won’t you tell me how you like it?” “You know how I like it.” Timmy bites back. Armie snorts. “You like it however I give it to you?”

“Yeah.” Timmy breathes back.

“That’s such bullshit.” Armie pushes his jaw back up to hold his gaze. “That’s something you say to inflate guys’ egos, and you fucking know it.”

“Why?” Timmy flutters his eyelashes. “Does yours need inflating?”

Armie smirks, squeezing his other hand where it’s wrapped around Timmy’s thigh, holding it up against his chest. Timmy lets out a little jittery breath before he can’t stop himself, and Armie grins, retaliating only by squeezing harder.

“Hard?” Armie asks, teasing, squeezing, harder, and harder. “You like it hard?”

Timmy snorts. “What are you expecting to get out of me? I like being fucked. The whole city knows that.”

Armie rubs his thumb back over Timmy’s jaw, before trailing it up over Timmy’s chin and pulling back his bottom lip.

“Mm.” Armie says, as if thinking aloud. “How about here?” He meets Timmy’s eyes as he pushes his thumb into Timmy’s mouth.

Timmy’s eyes blow wide, his pupils inflating; he looks dark and hungry like that, and Armie feels a little jittery inside his own skin. It’s all sweat between their thighs now, and Timmy wants to protest and make noises, but all he can manage are grasps for Armie’s arms, leaving crescent moon marks he’ll be sure to find later.

Armie pulls his thumb in and out of Timmy’s mouth, making him suck on it. He pulls it back slowly, wet with saliva, but doesn’t release his grip on Timmy’s jaw.

“You’re fucking mental.” Timmy tells him, catching his breath.

“Quiet.” Armie reminds him, looking over to the door. “And anyway?” He asks, trailing Timmy’s saliva down over his jaw. “I thought that was how you liked it.”

“Just fuck me, Armie.” Timmy says, heart hammering in his chest.

Armie snorts, pushing his thumb back into Timmy’s mouth, just to pull it back out with a pop. “Here?” He asks, tracing his fingertips over Timmy’s cheek.

“Fuck, if you want.” Timmy says, eyes a little glazed over.

Armie grins, pulling back, his other hand trailing down from over Timmy’s thighs and running between his legs. “You want it here, don’t you?”

“Where the fuck else did you think I wanted it? When I asked you to fuck me?” Timmy complains, and Armie pulls his other hand back from Timmy’s jaw, and traces his saliva slick thumb between Timmy’s legs.

Timmy near enough yelps. Armie shakes his head. “Are you sure you don’t need something in your mouth?” He asks. “Something to keep you quiet?” “What? Like your fucking thumb?” Timmy rolls his eyes.

“I can give you my whole fist if you want.” Armie says, voice low enough to really shut Timmy up. He uses Timmy’s silence as an opportunity to reach over to his bedside table and pull a few things from the drawer.

“Oh.” Timmy says, sitting up a little to watch what he’s doing. “My mouth is not wet enough for you?”

Armie almost laughs at him. “Oh, yeah, ‘cos I’m sure you’d love it if I fucked you with nothing but your own spit getting it wet.”

Timmy shrugs, leaning up into Armie’s space. “You could find out.”

Armie shivers but narrows his eyes at him. “Yeah, I don’t want to tear you in two, so I’m going to say no on that one.” He gets his fingers properly wet and puts them back where he thinks they belong.

Timmy makes another whine. He gasps for breath.

“Tear me in two?” He attempts to retort.

Armie just lets him try.

“Be fucking quiet.” He says, and gets one hand back up around Timmy’s jaw, thumb pulling back his bottom lip.

Armie goes quiet, making it good for him, for the both of them, quiet like he really likes this. And Timmy wonders if he does — that’s what he’s thinking about when he’s on his back, with Armie’s thumb in his mouth and Armie’s fingers between his legs — he wonders if Armie likes it like this too.

He sees everything in static for a while, Armie highlighted by the last few bronze rays of the sunrise, heaving shoulder blades, fingers, mouths, and then something to fill him up properly with. Timmy goes all slack like that — stardust spilled all over the sheets, and Armie wants to go about making constellations with him.

In time, Timmy reaches up and gets his hand over Armie’s mouth too, when he can barely stop himself from making little noises. At that point, both of their bodies are shimmering with sweat, and Timmy thinks of himself as languid, entirely malleable, not Armie’s to own, but Armie’s to take for the moment — he trusts Armie enough to suppose that he’ll give him all of this back.

Timmy lets go first; he does it without thinking or without meaning to, but when he comes to, Armie leans over him with a smirk, like he’s had this all planned. Timmy doesn’t have the words, the energy, or the sense to think, he’s just staring up at Armie, eyes all glossy, so familiar, and yet so vulnerable.

“Let me finish in you?” Armie wants it like a demand, but says it more like a question, though Timmy barely even looks like he can hear him, he just nods and screws his eyes shut.

It doesn’t take Armie long, it doesn’t take long until everything is in pieces again, two separate pieces of the bed, sheets still tangled with sweat, but with nothing else, nothing left.

Timmy stares up at the ceiling and tries to catch his breath. Everything is still all clouds and fog in his head; he’s trying to work out his thoughts, and trying to figure how he might put them into a sentence.

“I need a fucking shower.” He says.

Armie laughs. “Yeah. So do I — come in with me?”

“I’m not letting you fuck me again.” Timmy says, and means it.

Armie grins. “I wasn’t asking you to.”

“Then what the fuck do you want to shower with me for?” Timmy turns over to face him. “To fucking wash my hair or something?”

“Yeah.” Armie says. “If you want.”

Timmy sighs and turns over onto his back. He doesn’t know what to do with Armie; he doesn’t know what to do with any of this.

“You said you needed to call Will.” Timmy reminds him. “So go fucking call him, and I’ll shower.”

“Sure.” Armie says. “I’ll tell him Timmy says hi.”

“Oh yeah.” Timmy makes a face. “I’m sure he’ll love that.”

Armie snorts, and gets up, walking across to the wardrobe, still entirely naked. Timmy sits up a little, not _just_ for the sake of watching him, but if he’s being honest with himself, mostly just for the sake of watching him.

“Towel.” He says, and throws one in Timmy’s direction. “And I can give you another t-shirt if you want.”

“No.” Timmy thinks about the face Nick will make if he turns up wearing Armie’s t-shirt; he reminds himself that he’s trying to make a good impression. “Mine will be good from yesterday.”

Armie makes a face like he’s disappointed, before pulling his sweatpants back on. He hovers by the windowsill and fumbles with a packet of cigarettes; Timmy makes eyes at him like he always does when he wants something — Armie knows how this goes by now.

“Come on.” Armie narrows his eyes at him. “Shower. You wanted one.”

“Phone call.” Timmy narrows his eyes back. “You need to make one.”

“I can smoke and talk at the same time, Timmy.” Armie shakes his head, lighting a cigarette, and leaving the rest of the packet by the windowsill. “Go shower.” He tells him. “I’ll even make you coffee.”

“You’re really gonna call Will, smoke that cigarette, and make me coffee while I’m in the shower?” Timmy gets up, if only just to frown at Armie.

“Yeah.” Armie smirks. “Girls always take long in the shower. Don’t you?” Timmy lets out a sigh. “Fuck off, Armie.” He says, unable to bite back a smile.

Armie gets close enough just to kiss his cheek, before moving back to the bedroom door. “I think everyone’s still asleep.” He says, peeking out into the hallway.

“Good, ‘cos I don’t wanna run into your mom or something while I’m in a towel.” Timmy says, tying the towel around his waist.

“You remember which one the bathroom is.” Armie leans back against the door, just making sure.

“Yeah, Armie. I don’t have short term memory loss, if that’s what you were asking.” Timmy rolls his eyes.

“Someone’s grouchy in the mornings.” Armie snorts, before leaving through the bedroom door. “Have a nice shower. See you in what? Thirty minutes?”

“Fuck off, Armie.” Timmy says, laughing. “Fuck off.” He says, a little softer.

Armie lingers behind the doorway for just a moment, like he wants to say something that he still doesn’t quite have the words for, but Timmy doesn’t yet have the heart to translate.

“Coffee.” Armie says, like it’s a promise, and disappears down the stairs.

Timmy showers as quickly as possible out of spite alone. He feels strange, stranger than he ever has before, with his clothes off in somebody else’s house; he can’t deny that this is all different, different with Armie, whether he wants to accept that or not.

He gets yesterday’s clothes back on and tries to do his hair up as nicely. Armie is still on the phone to Will when he gets downstairs, but sure enough there’s a mug of coffee waiting for him on the breakfast table, sat next to a packet of cigarettes.

Timmy sits down and smiles at Armie, taking one moment that allows him to be earnest and vulnerable, before he lights himself a cigarette, and tries to make sense of what Armie is saying over the phone.

“...Oh, yeah, I mean... I’d thought about that, but I don’t think it’s massively important, you know? It’s just... just about... trying things out— Yeah...” Armie drags out a sigh, and leans back against the wall beside the phone hook, making faces at Timmy while he listens to Will talk.

Timmy blushes a little, and tries to bury everything in smoke and coffee.

“I mean, yeah, in about an hour and a half, yeah. And make sure Nick actually wakes up this time.” Armie laughs along to something Timmy isn’t a part of, suddenly looking distant again. “Yeah, I mean. Yeah, just be nice. Yeah. Look, see you. Alright, yeah? Bye.”

Armie puts the phone back onto the hook and nods in Timmy’s direction. “You were quicker than I expected.”

“Yeah, ‘cos I’m not a fucking girl.” Timmy rolls his eyes.

“Now, who sounds fucking sexist?” Armie laughs, and rummages through the kitchen cupboards. “You want something to eat?”

“No.” Timmy sighs. “I’m fine.”

“Yeah?” Armie asks, before putting some toast in. “Oh, and we’re going over to Will’s in about an hour and a half.”

“Yeah.” Timmy nods, taking a drag of his cigarette.“It’s a bit of a drive as well, he lives sort of near Nick, so...”

“It’ll be different.” Timmy says, brushing his hair back from his face. “Going up through the middle of nowhere in the day.”

“Yeah,” Armie says, and looks at Timmy like he really means it, “Everything’s different in the light.”

* * *

Timmy’s all nerves, bundled into the passenger seat, head pressed against the windowpane, looking like he wants to disappear. Armie has really got one eye on the road, and one eye on the boy next to him. Timmy wants to call him out for it, but he doesn’t quite have the words for it.

He doesn’t do well with nervous — it’s an unfamiliar feeling. Timmy thinks himself all ego, confidence, and grandeur, and ruling the world from his knees, and not this. Nothing steady, nothing simple, nothing where he’s meant to be known and reliable. He’s a shadow in the corner of a bar, a silhouette on stage, a person in the room, with the lights off. Armie was right. Everything’s so different in the light.

He thinks himself glad at least to be able to play, to be able to sing, to be able to think in a way that’s free from the chaos of thought. He wants to think in harmonies, breathe out melodies, he just wants to be to exist only in the rhythm of a song, to make a star of himself and burn out. He picks at his fingernails.

“Nobody hates you, Timmy.” Armie says, trying to focus on the road. Outside, everything is fields and a milky grey sky — what a morning, Timmy calls it, what a morning.

“I know.” Timmy sighs, pulling his knees up to his chest. “It’d be easier if they did.”

Armie shakes his head.

“Then I’d know where I stand.” Timmy clarifies. “And with this, who am I, what am I... I’m... what the fuck does anyone like that think of me, if it’s different, and it has to be different now, different from the way I want the world to think of me.”

“Being honest and vulnerable is a good thing.” Armie tells him, and though Timmy knows it in theory, he finds it hard to truly believe.

“And what do they think of me and you?” Timmy says suddenly. He can’t stomach to say the word ‘us’.

Armie stiffens a little. “I haven’t really talked about it.” “So, you’ve avoided it?” Timmy smirks, leaning back against the window.

“Yeah...” Armie sighs. “Fuck off.” “So what do they think?” Armie continues. “We’ll find out.”

“Yeah.” Timmy looks back down, picking again at his fingernails. “Probably already think I’ve got bored of you.”

Armie snorts. “Haven’t you, yet?”

“Surprisingly not.” Timmy sighs, carrying the weight of the world in his two hands.

“I told you.” Armie says, with a grin. “You never really knew what you want.”

“And I do now?” Timmy narrows his eyes. “Do I?”

“Yeah.” Armie smirks. “Have you never heard yourself talk?” He raises his voice to a high pitched whine. _”I want you, Armie. I want you. I want it—“_

“Fuck off.” Timmy buries his head in his hands. “I don’t sound like that.”

Armie snorts. “You do.”

“Whatever.” Timmy kicks his feet up onto the dashboard. “Don’t get too cocky about it.”

“Yeah, you’d know all about humility, you.” Armie teases.

Timmy grows distant, heart beginning to hammer in his chest as civilization paints itself back over the horizon. This is where it all starts again; this is where he has to figure out who he needs to be.

They’re silent for a little while, Timmy picking at his nails until there’s nothing left, and Armie is trying to find somewhere legal to park on a residential street. Timmy doesn’t notice the fog until they finally stop, until Armie pushes the car door open, and Timmy gets to breathe in fresh mist. The grey of the skies has sunk down through the air and dispersed around them.

Timmy gets out and finds his feet, staring up at the mist, trying to spot a few cracks of daylight shining through. This feels like another world, or at least the cut off corner of an existing one. The city suddenly seems so foreign, like it’s almost forgotten, and Armie’s hand is around his wrist, pulling him out of the road and away from incoming traffic.

Timmy’s dazed and slowly coming back to his senses on the pavement, Armie is looking him over with concern — the kind that makes him feel guilty, guilty about being cared for.

“It doesn’t even look real.” Timmy says. “The fog.” “Yeah, well, the rest of the world is, so don’t get yourself run over.” Armie shakes his head.

Timmy stands for a moment, and feels himself becoming just another silhouette. The only question this time, is whether he truly wants it to happen. Armie, as in all moments of static, is lighting himself a cigarette, and waiting for Timmy to think of something snarky to say.

Timmy, this time, is quiet, looking at Armie, not through him. He asks for what he wants with his eyes, and gets it. Armie gives Timmy his cigarette, and lights himself another.

Will’s house is only minutes away, but they turn it into a slow walk, for the sake of the cigarettes, for the sake of taking in everything, for the sake of taking a moment to feel human, before everything gets questioned.

Timmy kisses Armie quickly in the fog, before the skies clear back up. “What was that for?” Armie asks him, as they near Will’s house. “Does there have to be a reason?” Timmy counters, taking a drag of his cigarette.

Armie grins, giving a quick touch to Timmy’s waist. “You’ve gone soft.” He tells him, just to try and make Timmy squirm. And Timmy squirms, because if he’s already terrified, this seems like the least of his worries in the world.

“No softer than you.” He says in return, and Armie stops outside a house. “This it?”

“Yeah.” Armie tells him, and drags him down the driveway. Timmy feels panicked, like he’d needed a little warning, but he’s breathing in as much nicotine as he’s able, and trying to think of elsewhere, trying to think of the early morning, when everything was just him and Armie as they slept.

He’s gone soft, and he knows it then. He’s gone soft, as he looks at him, and starts to see stars.

Armie stubs out his cigarette, and pulls the garage door up. Timmy watches as the door rolls up to reveal a garage converted into a makeshift practice room, with instruments, an old sofa, and a mini fridge.

“Hey.” Armie says, holding the garage door up above his head. He turns to Timmy. “Go in, it doesn’t stay up.”

Timmy flushes and walks past Armie, hovering awkwardly by the wall. He tries not to make eye contact with either Will or Nick, but instead watches as Armie steps inside and lets the garage door fall shut behind him.

With the daylight locked off, the fairy lights kick in, and Timmy finds the whole room feeling a little ethereal, or at least entirely not what he’d expected. It’s bright enough to see well by, but not bright enough to really take a person to pieces with. He’d expected clear daylight, and the day had given him the middle ground.

“Hey.” Armie says again, once he’s realized that everybody’s just staring at each other in lieu of actually saying anything. “You know Timmy. Be nice.”

“I didn’t think he was actually gonna turn up.” Nick says, which is a questionable foot to start on when it comes to pleasantries.

Timmy rolls his eyes. “What you mean.” He tells him, “Is that you hoped I wasn’t going to.” Armie sighs. “I said be fucking nice.” He looks to Timmy, and then to Nick. “I mean it.”

Nick sighs. “I didn’t mean that by it, I just... I wasn’t sure how serious everyone was about this whole thing, especially considering... last time... but...”

“I’m serious.” Timmy says, folding his arms across his chest. “I’m not here for a fucking laugh, Nick.”

Nick nods. “Alright then.” “You should have brought something” Will says, “We wanted to hear you play.” “Yeah well.” Timmy makes a face. “Armie only told me last night, like eleven o’clock. So it’s his fault.” “It’s not like you don’t have a spare guitar, Will, fuck’s sake.” Armie shakes his head.

“Wait.” Nick stops Will before he can say anything in return. “Last night— I still don’t get how that means you couldn’t get your guitar.”

Timmy sighs, looking to Armie. Armie bites his lip like he’s desperately trying to come up with a lie.

Timmy rolls his eyes. “I was at Armie’s. Last night.”

“Yeah, and—” Nick stops suddenly.

“Last night, all night, and this morning.” Timmy finishes, not meeting Armie’s eyes.

“How...” Nick frowns. “What’s going on between you two?”

“Yeah.” Will agrees. “If we’re gonna be in a band together, we need to know.”

Armie sighs. “I don’t really know what to call it.”

“So you don’t know what it actually is?” Nick narrows his eyes.

“No, we do.” Timmy protests. “We talked about it last night, it’s just a bit complicated.”

“Right...”

“I mean...” Armie frowns. “This is a thing, but it’s not like...”

“Yeah, I’m not your fucking girlfriend.” Timmy laughs, always overcompensating, but never feeling comfortable enough.

“Yeah.” Armie rolls his eyes. “He’s not my fucking girlfriend.”

“But you’re dating in all other senses of the word.” Will raises his eyebrows. “You’re dating but you just don’t want to say it?”

“No.” Timmy says. “How?” Will asks.

“Because we can still fuck other people if we want.” Armie says. “Not that I thought you really wanted to know—“

“But you fuck each other?” “Yes, Will, fucking obviously.” Armie groans.

“Can we...” Nick sighs. “Look, fuck it, whatever, at the end of the day, it’s your business, whether it makes no sense or what— Will get Timmy your spare guitar.”

“I’m allowed to be concerned.” Will says, retrieving the spare guitar from the corner of the garage. “I mean... me and Sophie, that fucked up, and then we’re all fucked as a band. ‘Cos I don’t want it to be like three weeks later or whatever one of you gets upset, and then Timmy gets kicked out and we’re trying to find another fucking singer.”

“Yeah, I don’t want that either.” Timmy says. “I’m not here because I fancy Armie and he asked me nicely, I’m here because I need a fucking band.”

Will meets his eyes as he offers up the spare guitar. “Alright then. Let’s see you play.” “Just whatever?” Timmy asks, pulling the strap over his shoulder. “Yeah.”

He curls his fingers around the frets, making a few chord shapes just to stretch, before getting his fingers in place, and strumming over the strings. He gets this buzz through his body, breathing in the same vibrations, like he is all just music moving through this one body, and though he’s aware that there are three sets of eyes on him, he can’t feel them, he can’t feel anything.

He’s just a vessel, and his mind fixes on to this one song he wrote last week, he can remember the guitar parts and that’s enough. He thinks everything should feel different, quiet, self conscious, when he starts to sing, like he’s desperately aware that he’s just in the garage of a guy who doesn’t particularly like him all that much, but it’s the moment he starts to sing, when everything clicks into place.

He’s back on stage at that bar called The Dolphin, and he’s playing his heart out, like he knows this to be the last time, or at least the last time before everything changes, and he spots Armie’s face in the crowd, when he hadn’t really expected him to come, and suddenly he’s playing like he’s the only person in the room.

The song is unfinished, and lasts only about a minute and a half, but it’s got emotion in it, it’s got meaning, it’s got more than just sound, it’s got memories and colors, and a whirlwind of car crash nostalgia that Timmy wants to bury himself in, and he fucks up the last chord, but still looks up with life in him all the same.

“I told you he was good.” Armie says.“Yeah.” Nick nods. “Better at vocals than guitar, though.” “Yeah, well I’m a fucking singer, aren’t I? I’ve never played lead guitar.” Timmy sighs. “Yeah.” Will nods. “Nobody’s fucking perfect, Nick.” “Play with us.” Nick says, unfolding his arms. “Mm?” Timmy nods, taking it like a challenge.

They cover something Timmy’s heard on the radio his whole life, fuck he thinks he knows the whole instrumentation and not just the vocals, but it gets easier like that, when it’s not just him, when it’s him and a band, and he remembers why he does this. Why he gets into shitty bands and gives them all enough to break him, because he needs the music, and not just for the value of sound, but for the value of sharing it with somebody, for the value of feeling like a part of something. Feeling whole and human.

They play five other songs like it before Will demands that they need a break and pulls some beers out of the mini fridge.

Timmy’s left hovering, still in limbo, still more a part of the music than the moment; he’s got his fingers still curled in around this guitar, and he fucking feels like a real part of something.

“Hey.” Armie says, as he pulls the guitar over his head. “You were good.” “No.” Timmy tells him. “We were good.”

He still feels strange, on the outside, clinging awkwardly onto Armie for a sense of security, but he feels Will and Nick looking at him more, and looking at him like he’s more human being and less ego. But he doesn’t quite know how he likes that yet.

“So?” Armie asks for him. “Is he in?”

Nick looks to Will. “I think so yeah.”

Timmy smiles.

“I wanna see the songs you’ve written next time, though.” Nick adds.

“Yeah.” Timmy nods. “I mean... as long as Armie doesn’t distract me.” He’s teasing, just because he feels like he can, tugging at Armie’s sleeve.

Armie sighs, looking up. “I’m not distracting, you’re just useless.” He tells him with a smirk. Timmy rolls his eyes and pretends to look offended.

He doesn’t get very far.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I DO NOT OWN THIS STORY.
> 
> This is an adaptation from an original work posted by Babyspiders on Wattpad, all credit to her ( and before anyone comes after me. It was allowed). If you want to go check her work. She also has a poetry Instagram acc:
> 
> https://www.instagram.com/futile.devicez/


	7. VII.

Timmy’s alone for what feels like the first time in years. He feels strange in his bedroom, strange as he always does, but stranger. Stranger this time around. There are cracks in his skin, starting to let the light in, and he wonders if Armie looks in, whether he’ll like what he finds inside.

He writes a song about it. Or at least tries to. Because he’s got this static all over his body, this mind that won’t stay quiet, this panic burning through him like wildfire. He can’t be still. And he chain-smokes six cigarettes, but the ache doesn’t pass, it only worsens.

He tries to write a song about that — chain-smoking six cigarettes and feeling useless, but that doesn’t work either. He tries to just sit by the windowsill, but he can’t even sit still. There’s something on his mind. There’s a lot on his mind. There’s this sensation wound through him like a ribbon with Armie’s fucking name on it, and he’s terrified about what will happen if he ever tries to get it out.

And then there’s the band. He’s a part of something now. He’s not just lost and going crazy on his own. If he does something, if something happens to him, it gets back to them too. And now he’s sat feeling careful, sat choking on air. He wants to feel human, he wants to be destructive, but Armie is nowhere when he needs him, so he fights against sense, puts something pretty on and goes out to the most disgusting club he can find.

It doesn’t take long. It never takes long. Timmy almost thinks he could get paid for this — sitting there and looking pretty. He’s drowning in the music, stretched out across a plush velvet booth. It’s the kind of club where everything for miles stinks of cigarettes, and he’s smoking himself away too, watching, waiting, hoping for trouble.

It never takes long.

Trouble is tall and dark and looking at him like a fucking trophy, and Timmy tells himself that _’no,_ this is how he likes it’. And he gets this choked feeling, when he starts thinking of Armie, and this stranger puts his arm around his shoulders, but no, he reminds himself, he breathes in slow and reminds himself that Armie told him this was okay.

_’Tell me about it’._

The stranger’s fingertips over his collarbones.

_’Why so you can get off on it?’_

The stranger leaning in, everything painted dark and musky.

_’Yeah. Something like that.’_

Lips. This stranger kissing him, like he wants to start riot with it, like he wants to burn cities with this.

_’Tell me about it.’_

Armie’s words echoing in his head, all over again, and hands. This stranger molding the world with his hands, hands starting down Timmy’s body, and his eyes fall open, because they’re still in the club, still in the smoke, just sat there, but they’re forgotten, nobody’s watching them, and he knows that. He likes that, Timmy supposes.

And he doesn’t even know the guy’s name, but he knows that he’s not going to stop, even if he asks them to go somewhere else, and Timmy thinks he must have planted his body there like an invitation, but he thinks, fuck, there’s no way a body can be like that. The stranger’s hand is between his legs, they still haven’t said a word to each other yet, and Timmy’s still thinking about Armie.

_’Why so you can get off on it?’_

Timmy twitches, keeling a little. He feels strange turning stranger, volatile, and staring out into the smoke looking for car rides and clean moonlight, in a city that’s all dingy clubs and industrial fumes. He wonders where Armie is, if he’s at home right now. He should have just gone to see him.

And Timmy gasps, because he likes this. He tells himself he likes this. He likes this in theory. He likes this when he closes his eyes and forgets where they are and who’s doing this to him. He’s supposed to like this. This is supposed to be him. But he’s not the same anymore. He’s not the same anymore. He knows that when his vision burns white, he knows that when this stranger seizes his thighs, he knows that when he cums.

 _’Yeah.’_ Armie’s voice is in his head again.

Timmy’s eyes flicker open wide and he looks down, at this mess made of his thighs, at this mess made of the both of them. He looks, red-faced through the smoke, but still nobody’s watching them, and still, this stranger’s got a tight hand on his shoulders. Timmy needs to get up, but he’s not sure if he can.

 _’Something like that.’_ Armie says again, in his head, elsewhere.

Timmy thinks of that bed, Armie’s bed, Armie’s bedroom, as the room without obligation — the place he always wants to be — he doesn’t know why he ever left. He’s trying to breathe steadily, and this stranger’s trying to latch a hand around his waist, and pull his body back and forth, something to get off on. And Timmy knows this isn’t right, not anymore, somewhere at the back of his mind, but he doesn’t have the words, or at least nothing that feels right.

“I’m not high enough.” Timmy says, more to himself, than the stranger. He’s not even high at all.

“Come back to mine.” The stranger’s voice is in his ear. “I can give you something. I can give you whatever you want, baby.”

Timmy’s feet try to find the floor, try to find some purchase with it.

 _’How do you want it?’_ Armie asks him again in his head, and Timmy feels stuck like he’s still half- way there, that room, that feeling, that night, last night, a world away now.

“I need to breathe.” Timmy says and struggles to his feet. “It’s all... smoke in here, and...” He makes a run for it. Never the front door, but the back door, he’s glad he knows this club, and he escapes out round the back beside the toilet, and catches his breath in the alleyway, staring up at the obscured light of the stars.

“Fuck.” He says to himself, trying to find a cigarette, trying to clean his thighs. He looks over his shoulder, and thinks about dashing back into the bathroom, but the door’s already closed.

He cleans his thighs off onto the sleeve of his white blouse, and afterwards, just rolls it up.

He stands there for a while instead. He supposes he has to go home again; he supposes he has to think straight again; he supposes it used to be near enough like this every night; he supposes he used to like it. Before. 

Before Armie.

“Fuck.” He tells the twilight, polluted with neon city light, and stares out through the alleyway and into the main street. The world is alive out there, girls laughing, boys shouting, cigarettes in the gutter, people in the gutter. This is what the city is, and this is where he belongs. He tells himself that until he means it. He tells himself that until he believes it. He leans against the wall and smokes his cigarette before getting up again.

He wanders out into the street, determined to stare trouble in the face until it finds him. He wants to make some noise, something that sounds right, he wants to get his mouth around someone, someone that tastes right, he wants to lose his mind somewhere, somewhere that feels right.

He stands on the kerb and watches the traffic. The late hour has slowed the flow substantially, but still this is the city, and it’s alive, and Timmy’s alive too, and desperately reminding himself of everything he loves about it, everything he loves about this feeling. Going out and being wanted.

He gets it suddenly. It comes like air cut off from his throat. It comes and severs him in two, right down his spinal chord. He’d gotten used to not being lonely.

Armie. Fucking Armie. Armie.

Timmy buries his head in his hands and finds a bin to throw up in. He’s not even drunk, fucking hell, he reminds himself, he’s not even drunk, tipsy at best, just lonely too, and slowly losing his grip on everything.

He pulls away and tries to get some air.

There’s a voice in his ear before the ringing stops, and he’s terrified, terrified that it’s him. The stranger. The same stranger. Terrified. That’s a sobering feeling, and he already thinks himself sober enough, but. But not enough.

“Timmy?”

This stranger knows his name. They’re a different stranger, not a stranger, Timmy looks up and expects his whole world to give in.

“Saoirse?” He sighs, almost in relief. “You don’t look okay.” She tells him. And he wants to tell her that he doesn’t feel it, but he knows that she wouldn’t ever believe him. “You getting home safe?” She asks him again.

And he wants to latch onto her, he wants them to be best friends, though they’ve never been more than friendly acquaintances, and Timmy remembers crying in the bathroom with her that one night when the world snapped in two, but they don’t know each other anymore, not really. And the stars come crashing down, slowly.

“Yeah.” He tells her. It feels like an easy lie.

“Good.” Her tone is a little dubious, but she lets it go, she lets it slide, and stares back out to the stardust. “I’ll see you around, yeah.” She says it like she doesn’t mean it, and Timmy doesn’t bother to kid himself.

He watches as she disappears out into the city lights, joining a group smoking far on the other side of the street. Timmy spots him amongst them. Ansel. He remembers how he pulled her hair that one night in the dressing room. Ansel catches his eyes, for just a moment, the stars stop, and he beckons him over.

Timmy laughs into the gutter and turns away. It’d take a weaker him, another night, a boy with more desperation in him. He still has a home to go to, and he’s glad, he’s glad to be alive.

He sees a silhouette outside a bar on the way home. A face he thinks he recognizes. But a face he can’t bring himself to talk to. He just watches from the outside.

* * *

Timmy’s pretending to be hangover so he has an excuse for the way he’s acting — all needy and tired. He thinks Armie can see through him, he thinks Armie can see through him with more than just his eyes.

They’re sat in the garden, under the back porch, at Armie’s house. Timmy’s watching the rain fall, Armie is watching Timmy’s mouth. They’re sharing an ashtray and the same packet of cigarettes, the same metal outdoor table and chairs. Timmy is borrowing a blanket, Armie is borrowing a lighter. And just like that, they both feel at home.

“When you said...” Timmy begins awkwardly, because he doesn’t really know where to start. Armie nods, leaning closer.

“Like...” Timmy tugs in a sigh. “When you said if I get with other people, tell you about it? Did you mean that?”

“Yeah.” Armie says. “I mean you don’t _have_ to. And I don’t mean in a sexy way, I mean in a... I’m genuinely curious way. And I mean, maybe it’s kind of weird if you don’t, because then it’s like a secret, and then it just feels... a bit weird, don’t you think?”

Timmy sighs, his shoulders caving in. “This all feels a bit weird, Armie.”

“Yeah.” Armie stares out at the rain, looking a little distant again.

“The other night...” Timmy begins, trying to focus on just inhaling and exhaling again.

Armie’s head snaps up. “You...?” He puts the pieces together. “That wasn’t hypothetical?”

“Yeah.” Timmy breathes out a sigh. There’s this weird venom plaguing his head, painting everything cloudy; he thinks to call it regret.

“I mean...” Armie frowns, trying to process the situation. “Yeah, like obviously that’s fine, because we talked about—“

“It wasn’t fine, Armie.” Timmy cuts him off, staring down into the ashtray in lieu of meeting his gaze. “It didn’t fucking feel fine.”

“How come?” Armie frowns, and Timmy can feel the concern radiating from his eyes without even looking at him. It’s a warmth that consumes him, and makes him feel like he’s going to be sick sometimes.

Timmy bites his lip, and thinks of a way to say it. “He was...” He starts and stops again. A thousand words come to mind, but he’s frantic, concerned with Armie’s reaction to each and every one; he cares too much now — he’s certain he must be losing his mind.

“I kept thinking about you.” Timmy says instead. Armie flushes red. “What? While he was fucking you?”

“He never fucked me.” Timmy says and makes a point out of it. He meets Armie’s eyes for the first time.

“I was just there...” Timmy trails off, eyes going glassy. “It felt like before, and I just... fuck, Armie. You were right when you said I let guys treat me like shit.”

Armie frowns. “What happened?”

“But I don’t think I like it anymore.” Timmy doesn’t answer the question. “I don’t think I ever liked it actually. I just desperately needed the attention, the company.”

He looks up to Armie. “Sometimes you make me feel terrified.” Armie’s face grows white with concern. “Timmy, what do you mean?”

“Not _you,_ yourself.” Timmy laughs it off. He looks out to the horizon. “But I suppose the thought of you. Like I let myself get used to this, get used to you. Just makes me feel fucking terrified about what I’m going to do when it’s over.”

Armie looks at him like he’s trying to read him, but doesn’t get very far.

“You make me feel safe.” Timmy tells him, before he hurls at the thought. “I haven’t felt that with people before.”

“And the other night?” Armie pushes him. “What happened with the guy?” Timmy blanks over, reminding himself who he is and how this is all just sex and it means nothing.

He doesn’t quite believe it as much as he used to, though. “Well, he got me off and then tried to get me to go back to his, and I didn’t want to, and I wasn’t going to, so I had make up some excuse and escape out the back.”

Armie frowns. “Fucking hell.”

“And then... I don’t know... everything was weird out back, just staring at the stars, thinking, god, I’m a mess, and then...” He swallows, closing his eyes. “I saw Ansel again. The asshole from my old band. He was there, just staring at me from across the street, but it wasn’t just staring, it was like when people are talking with their eyes, and...” Timmy shakes his head.

“Fucking hell, Timmy.” Armie tells him again.

“I really shouldn’t have gone out.” Timmy laughs at himself. “But that’s a joke, isn’t it? Me, Timothée fucking Chalamet, can’t handle himself when a guy tries to make a pass at him. Who the fuck am I anymore?”

“Someone who started treating themselves with some self respect?” Armie asks, his voice soft and concerned.

Timmy bites his lip. “I’m making myself feel like that’s a bad thing, Armie.”

“I know.” Armie tells him. “I can see it. Your mind going round in manic fucking circles.”

Timmy catches his breath.

“Go out with me.” Armie tells him, stubbing his cigarette out in the ashtray. “I’d be more than fucking happy to tell any guy stepping over the line where he can fucking stick it.”

Timmy laughs. “I can’t exactly go out with you to hook up with other people.”

“Why not?” Armie asks, deadly serious. “We could both hook up with other people, keep an eye on each other.”

Timmy narrows his eyes. “You get off on all of this, somehow, don’t you?” Armie laughs, cheeks tinging pink.

“What is it about being there? The sitting there and looking him in the eye, the ‘oh, I’m _letting you_ fuck him’?” Timmy snorts, rolling his eyes. “Way to boost your fucking ego, Armie.”

“It’s the sitting there and knowing you’re getting what you want.” Armie tells him, leaning back in his chair. “Knowing that everything you have is always the way you fucking want it, because you’re Timothée Chalamet, and you get your way.”

Timmy flushes, trying to look away.

“So why are you fucking other guys and still coming back here, coming back to me?” Armie continues. “Because that’s what you want. Because that’s how you want it.”

“You’re the one that asked me to fucking talk about it to you.” Timmy rolls his eyes. “You’re the one trying to make this a thing—“

“And why are you doing it?” Armie cuts him off. “Not because I asked you nicely, never because I asked you nicely, but because I made you want to.”

Timmy sighs. “What’s your point, Armie?” He shrugs. “Maybe I get off on it. A little bit. Why? Do you mind?”

Timmy flushes, looking out to the rain. “We should do that then. One night, you and me, but not you and me.”

“But I should absolutely get to fuck you at the end of night when we come back home.” Armie suggests.

“What when you start making me talk about him, just so you get hard?” Timmy teases. “Yeah, if you want.” Armie grins.

“But who’s to say that I’m gonna go back with you, and not with someone else?” Timmy interjects, raising his eyebrows.

“Because you get what you want, Timmy.” Armie tells him. “You’ve said enough yourself already — can’t you figure that one out?”

Timmy sighs.He stares out to the sky and starts to count the raindrops.

“Stop making me feel accountable for my actions, Armie.” He tells him. “It’s making me fucking think about everything.”

Armie rolls his eyes.

“I miss when my head would just shut up.” He stubs out his cigarette. “I was higher then, though, generally, but I suppose I had to be.”

Armie frowns.

“You can only hear the same people call you a faggot so many fucking times.” He sighs, pulling his knees up to his chest.

Armie is silent.

“That’s what all of this is, isn’t it?” Timmy talks to the sky. “No one’s said anything like that to me in a while, and I’m starting to get complacent with it.”

Armie starts talking. “What do you mean?” He leans forward. “Who? Well, I mean, who specifically, you know—“

“Guys that are fucking me, sometimes—“ Timmy’s eyes widen. “Would you believe that? I mean, yeah, go on, you’re literally fucking a guy right now, but go on about how I look like a fucking pansy with makeup on.”

“Jesus Christ.” Armie is stuck between laughter and horror.

Timmy doesn’t look at him in the eye, but gets close enough to call it success. “You’re making me feel complacent, fucking safe, God, Armie... it’s just... you and your fucking caring about me, and your friends that don’t even look at me weird, look at us weird, for being us, and your house, your mum who doesn’t mind, it’s... I have to remind myself that this is the exception, this isn’t the normal, and it fucking kills me.”

Armie looks down.

“And that’s why I’m terrified sometimes, that all of that’s just going to disappear someday. That you’re going to disappear someday.”

“I’m not going to fucking disappear.” Armie promises him.

“Yeah, maybe not.” Timmy sighs, sitting back in his chair. “But I’ll make you, I’ll push you away in time, ‘cos that’s what I do.”

“Doesn’t mean I’ll let you.” Armie makes another bold stab at a promise. “I know how you work, mostly.” He allows himself a smile. “It’s all mess in your head, isn’t it?”

Timmy gets up and stretches a palm out from under the porch; he’s desperate to feel the rain on his skin, he’s desperate to feel something. “I’m scared, Armie.” He tells the raindrops. “Of doing this wrong.”

Armie gets up and joins him. “So am I.” He says, which Timmy didn’t expect.

Timmy snorts. “So it’s both of our faults if this all fucks up.”

“Yeah.” Armie nods. “Equal responsibility, equal blame.”

Timmy looks back out to the skies. “You ever wanted to kiss someone in the rain? Or is that just something they do in movies?”

Armie snorts, moving a hand to the back of Timmy’s neck. “You’re gonna get your hair wet.” “Duh.” Timmy rolls his eyes. “And you’re gonna get bothered about it.” Armie tells him. “And I’ll have to listen to you moan.” “Thought you liked that.” Timmy grins. “Making me moan?”

“Shut up.” Armie tells him, but with only his mouth and not his eyes.

Timmy ventures out from beyond the porch and out into the downpour. “Come on.” He calls to Armie. “Or are you afraid of getting your ego wet?”

Armie rolls his eyes, and slips out from under the porch to join him. By the time Armie gets his arms around him, Timmy is shivering with dark curls plastered to his cheeks.

“Timmy, you’re freezing—“

“Yeah, well.” Timmy makes a face, “Come warm me up.”

“This was so stupid.” Armie tells him, and Timmy knows it with every fiber of his being.

“I like stupid.” Timmy says, getting a hand in Armie’s hair. “Maybe that’s why I like you so much.”

“Hey.” Armie tells him. “I could leave you out here in the cold, you know?” “But you won’t.” Timmy snorts. “‘Cause you’ll get bored sat inside by yourself with nothing pretty to look at.” “Funny you say that.” Armie teases. “You look like a drenched rat right now.” “So do you.” Timmy says, and kisses him anyway. Armie wants to argue, but loses everything in the moment.

Timmy feels the rain soaking through to his skin, and Armie’s hands only leaving brief flickers of warmth, and knows through and through that this idea was stupid beyond belief, but he knows at last, that was exactly why he liked it. He supposes Armie is right, though he’ll never admit it — every time, he gets exactly what he wants.

Slowly, Timmy pulls away, catching his breath, catching fresh air.

Armie reaches out and pushes back Timmy’s hair from his face. “This was your idea.” He tells him again.

“I know.” Timmy clings onto a grin. “Wanna go shower? Together?”

Armie smirks.

“Or do you need me to talk more about other guys fucking me to get you hard?” Timmy teases.

“Shut up.” Armie sighs, shoving him gently.

Timmy only laughs, staying put, as Armie begins to make a bid for the shelter of the porch.

“What are you doing?” Armie asks from the porch, having to raise his voice a little to be heard over the downpour.

Timmy grins to himself. “Being scared.” He shouts back. Armie frowns at him.

“You wanna know why I’m scared?” Timmy says to himself, not loud enough so that Armie can hear him over the downpour. “Because I feel like no one else is going to ever compare to you.”

“I can’t hear you.” Armie calls back. “Come here, you idiot.”

“Yeah, fine.” Timmy says, and hurries back under the porch, getting his arm around Armie for no reason at all.

“What were you saying out there?” Armie asks, as they stumble in through the backdoor.

“Nothing.” Timmy tells him. “Nothing worth listening to at all.”

* * *

Together in the bathroom they have just static and skin. Armie clicks the door locked, but Timmy still hopes that nobody else is home. He’s examining his reflection in the mirror, before perching against the sink, and trying to get his clothes off.

Armie’s shirt comes off easily, like he’s not scared of anything. Of course, Timmy asks himself — what really is there to be scared of? But when he thinks on it, he comes up with more than he’d bargained for. But Armie loses his clothes like Timmy loses his train of thought, and the static grows louder until Timmy’s convinced that there’s nothing in the world but this bathroom, but the two of them, but this rainstorm.

And Armie turns the shower on.

“You’ll catch cold.” Armie tells him, finding any excuse to get up into his space. Timmy’s still got a white blouse, soaked and plastered to his skin, buttons only half way undone. He hasn’t even started on his jeans.

“Warm me up.” Timmy says, for the sake of something cheesy, something rotten.

Armie shakes his head, but trails his fingertips over and under the soaked blouse nonetheless. It’s enough to fine-tune the static, and suddenly Timmy starts making sense, starts making noises.

And Armie has got this wildfire grin, as his fingers slip back down to the buttons.

“Careful.” Timmy warns him, eyes flickering back open. Armie’s hands are moving so frantically, he’s scared that either him or the material will tear.

Armie snorts, pushing a kiss to the side of Timmy’s throat. “I’m tired of fucking careful.”

“Well I fucking like this blouse.” Timmy exclaims, swatting Armie’s hands away, and taking it off for himself.

“You’re such a girl.” Armie says, watching him. Timmy rolls his eyes. “I thought you didn’t want it like that.”

“It’s just an observation.” Armie slides his palms over Timmy’s denim soaked thighs. “You’re a very... feminine... guy... there’s not harm in saying that.”

“Armie.” Timmy sighs. “Just take my fucking jeans off.”

Armie snorts, moving his hands to the zipper. Armie gets the jeans down to Timmy’s knees, before the static clear enough to allow Timmy to speak.

“I’ll tell you a secret, though.” Timmy says, lips wound around a smirk. “Yeah?” Armie leans in closer, eyes wild with excitement. “These are girls jeans.” He says, cheeks painted pink. Armie snorts, pulling them off completely. “I fucking knew it.”

“I’ve got little legs.” Timmy says in his defense. Armie just laughs at him. “Some guy somewhere out there would fucking get off on this.” “What?” Timmy teases, sliding his underwear off. “You?” “Not me.” Armie tells him, teasing, “Not nearly enough you fucking other people for that.”

“Ah.” Timmy twists out a frown. They linger there for a while, in each other’s space, the shower waiting. Timmy looks at Armie and thinks, I want to get to really know him, to get to know this boy, to get to know his body and how it works — I want to tear him to pieces.

He doesn’t get far. Armie kisses him before he gets the chance to carry the thought further, and after that everything is blanketed out in static, and Timmy’s pushing half moon circles into Armie’s shoulder blades.

“You’re fucking amazing.” Armie tells him, with a hand around his waist. It’s an easy way to make a promise, without saying anything at all.

Timmy looks to the shower. “We’re wasting water.” He tells Armie, instead of anything he really means to say.

Armie grins, feathering his fingers out against Timmy’s neck. “Yeah, and God, you’re freezing. We better get warm.”

There are lines where everything fuses together into one. For the moment, there are more points on Armie’s body like that than Timmy can count. He lets Armie pull him in two, and mold him back into one.

The hot water’s spilling over them, and Timmy feels clean, cleaner than he’s felt in a decade, cleaner than he’s thought possible. He looks up at Armie, and sees brand new. He paints his fingertips against Armie’s cheeks, finding something soft hidden away in stone, and Armie’s hands are moving again finding something to take to pieces, something to rebuild.

Timmy lets Armie push his shoulders back into the tiles, he’s slouched still, with this hazy look in his eyes like Armie is more phantom than he is human. He thinks he’s a little high with it, or if failing that just dizzy. Armie has got his hands all over Timmy’s body, indexing every part of him, and his mouth coming second to cover lost ground.

Timmy lets himself feel claimable, he thinks back to the boy who’d called him a prize. He thinks about winning. He looks to Armie’s eyes, and wonders when he’d ever thought of sex as a competition. If anything, he thinks with Armie, they’re always on the same side.

Armie touch him until Timmy’s moans turn sweet, and he’s all heavy between his legs, and the water is running feverish against their skin. Armie pulls back and looks Timmy over like someone’s put up the whole universe behind his two eyes.

“I don’t want you to slip.” He says, giving Timmy room to breathe. “If I fuck you.” “Oh, yeah.” Timmy rolls his eyes. “‘Cause I’m that fucking clumsy.” Armie smirks. “‘Cause like this, I’ll fuck you that hard.”

Timmy’s chest tightens.

“I need to wash my hair.” He says, and leans forward to run it under the shower. He reaches for the shampoo, almost just as an excuse not to look at Armie.

“I’d love to fuck your mouth.” Armie says suddenly, like he’s no concern for common decency.

Timmy almost chokes on a breath. He stands frozen, with shampoo in the palm of his hand. “Jesus Christ, Armie.” He looks to him, eyes blown wide, heart starting up in his chest. “Let me wash my hair first.”

Armie snorts. “And you wash your hair too.” Timmy passes Armie the shampoo.

“We’re both hard and you’re talking about shampoo?” Armie asks, but obliges nonetheless. “And I thought you were calling me weird ‘cause I liked listening to you talking about other people fucking you.”

“Shut up, Armie.” Timmy says, putting minimal effort into massaging the shampoo into his scalp, before rinsing it clean. Armie follows suit.

“Now?” He asks, getting back into Timmy’s space. “Will you let me?”

“Conditioner.” Timmy chokes out, reaching for the conditioner.

Armie rolls his eyes.

“My hair’s gonna be dry otherwise.” Timmy makes a face. “Come on, you’ve got to care a little bit about that.”

“I care about it less...” Armie says, looking between his thighs. “Than I do this.” “Well, aren’t you a fucking gentleman?” Timmy says, popping the cap of the conditioner open.

“Get on your knees right now, I’ll fucking massage conditioner in your hair for days.” Armie tells him, and Timmy freezes, unable to tell if he’s serious.

“You want to condition my hair...” He trails off, “While I suck you off?” Armie snorts. “If it’ll make you happy.”

Timmy looks down at the conditioner. Looks between Armie’s thighs. He thinks fuck it, as long as no one else ever finds out.

He pushes the conditioner in Armie’s hands and sinks down to his knees. “How are you still this hard when we’ve been talking about conditioner?” Timmy’s almost concerned.

Armie snorts. “You think I’ve been listening?”

_“Armie—”_

“I’ve been looking at you.” Armie tells him while Timmy gets his hands on Armie’s thighs. “You’re fucking gorgeous, Timmy.”

His stomach feels like it flips inside out. “Conditioner.” Timmy chokes out, just to change the subject. Armie smirks, and takes any excuse to get his hands in Timmy’s hair.

Timmy gets his mouth stretched wide, and looks straight up, like he’s waiting for Armie to call him ‘obscene’ or ‘pretty’ or any other combination of expletives the boys usually go for. But Armie is only looking down at him out of the corner of his eyes, he’s working his hands into Timmy’s hair for real.

Timmy wants to sigh. Timmy wants to pinch himself. Timmy wants to reassess how any of this could possibly be real. It’s not. He tells himself. Over and over again. It’s not.

“You can leave that sit now.” Armie tells him, pulling his hands back from his hair.

Timmy sits back on his thighs. “You can pay me some fucking attention now.” He adds, sounding like a petulant child.

Armie snorts. “Someone’s fucking needy.”

“Someone’s fucking unbelievable.” Timmy sighs. “You can fuck my mouth now, if you want.” Armie stops for a moment. “Like really?” “Yeah.” Timmy sighs, sitting up again. “I mean, I’m sure I don’t need to tell you to be careful—” Armie smirks. “Shut up. You know I’ll look after you.”

And Timmy does. It gives him this weird rush that has him leaning in, spreading his thighs, and getting his mouth all slack and wet. He pushes a hand up Armie’s hip, holding on tight, holding on tighter than he needs to.

“Good?” Armie asks him, like he always does.

Timmy nods.

Armie grips his hair tight, and Timmy forgets how to breathe within the space of five seconds. His eyes are blown impossibly wide, he’s seeing skin and static, and heat doused all around him. This doesn’t feel real, until Armie tugs harder on his hair, until it all starts to hurt and Timmy feels his body open up like a garden. If there’s a prize or trophy to be won, he supposes that now it’s Armie to take freely.

“Fuck.” Armie tells the shower wall, tells his hands bunched up in Timmy’s hair, tells the driving force, tells his hands yanking Timmy back.

Timmy whines, pushes back onto his thighs, watching as Armie cums.

“You could’ve used my mouth.” Timmy says, like it’s nothing, and gets up to wash his hair out in the water.

Armie just stares at him, leant back against the wall, trying to catch his breath. He looks like he’s trying to figure Timmy out; Timmy only hopes that Armie’ll tell him if he ever gets somewhere.

“Fuck.” Armie says again, as Timmy turns back to him.

Timmy snorts. “You alright?”

“Fucking come here.” Armie says, and makes a move to pull him closer. He’s quick with it, quick and fucking dirty, and Timmy hates how much he likes it, with Armie’s arms curled in around him, and their hips crushed close together, Timmy pushed up onto the toes of his feet so Armie can easily reach.

Timmy chokes out a groan and lets go as Armie grinds back against him.

“Don’t fucking do that.” Timmy whines, hand pressed flat against the tiles, trying to find his balance. Armie breathes laughter into his throat. The shower’s starting to run cold.

“You good?” Armie asks him again, running a hand up to his chest. “Yeah, Armie.” Timmy manages, trying to catch his breath. “Fucking fantastic.” “Come on.” Armie says, kissing his neck, before reaching to turn the shower off. “Let’s get dry.”

Timmy’s sat by the windowsill with a cigarette, Armie is rummaging through his room behind him, trying to find something’s he lost.

The rain’s still pouring, and in a sense, Timmy’s head’s still out there — on the back porch, saying everything and nothing at once. He wants to know Armie more than he’ll ever let himself.

“My mom’s coming home soon.” Armie says looking to the clock. “Oh.” Timmy looks down to check how much is left of his cigarette.

“I don’t mean leave.” Armie laughs. “You don’t have to go. I mean you can if you want to, but she’s not gonna mind you being here.”

Timmy flushes. “I’m just not used to... anyone over the age of thirty... not being massively homophobic.”

Armie smiles, pulling an arm around Timmy’s shoulders. “God knows what she’s gonna think of you, but... if she hates you it’s not gonna be because you’re a boy.”

“I mean that’s fine.” Timmy insists. “If she’s got valid grounds to hate me, then she can hate me, I mean— like with Nick, that’s why I’m so pissed off about it, because I’m sure half of the things he’s heard about me aren’t even true, and it’s—“

“He’s coming around.” Armie tells him, kissing the top of his head. “Will likes you anyway. Thinks you’re a laugh at least, and you’re a good singer. I mean they don’t have to be in love with you, Timmy. I know that’s how you want your world to work, but it’s not.”

Timmy snorts. “I really don’t think anyone’s ever been in love with me, Armie.”

Armie stops and looks like he wants to say something, but flushes red and turns away again.

“God, I used to think that though — that like, the third fuck was practically like a proposal.” He lets out a sigh, managing a little strangled laugh at himself. “Yeah, my parents’ relationship was kinda fucked when I was growing up.”

Armie smiles at him, wandering back to the windowsill. Timmy realizes too late why he’s done this; he hardly ever speaks of his family, or at least candidly, and Armie is trying to push the opportunity.

“Never saw my dad much.” Timmy says, chewing on his nails. “Never saw my mom much to think of it, but she was more... there in the background... my dad was just gone a lot of the time.”

Armie nods. “So was my dad. Not in the like... fucked marriage way, but for work. He has to go far for work a lot.”

“That’s enough to fuck a marriage up.” Timmy says. “There’s a whole wide world out there, billions of people, and that’s your person, that’s your one in billions, and sure that’s easy enough to believe in the same town, your one out of the same hundred thousand people. Those odds are a little easier, but you go away, and the odds get worse, the more you see... because chances are... they’re not... they’re not your ‘soulmate’ just out of probability alone, and... someone better comes along. That’s how to fuck a marriage up.”

“You anti-monogamy or just anti-marriage?” Armie asks, trying to hide the vulnerability in his words.

“I’m not sure I really know what the fuck monogamy really means— like I know what the word means, but what it actually means, to be monogamous, to feel... to... you know what it’s always been like for me.” Timmy bites his lip. He’s thinking, and looking to drown in his thoughts.

“I mean, I can’t get fucking married anyway, if I wanted to. Well, I could to a woman, and I do fancy girls a bit, but...” Timmy makes a face. “I can’t imagine being a husband. That fucking... heterosexualised way of living.”

“So you’re anti-both?” Armie asks, snorting.

“Marriage is beautiful in its bare fucking principles, like knowing your person and being like I promise this is just you and me, forever, but it’s... people fucked it up. We took something beautiful in principle and fucked it up with money and business and tradition and expectation and laws and religion, and—“

Armie kisses him, maybe just to shut him up.

“I’m gonna say it again.” He says, softly, pulling away. “You’re smarter than anyone’s ever given you credit for. And don’t fucking forget that.”

Timmy sighs, looking down. “I’m not smart, I’m just fucking cynical.”

“You’re smart enough to know the difference.” Armie tells him, and the front door slams closed. He turns to Timmy. “That’ll be my mum. She’ll want to meet you. It’s gonna be really embarrassing.”

Timmy stubs out his cigarette. “I’ll love that.”

Timmy lingers in the stairwell. He’s not hiding behind Armie, he tells himself. He’s not nervous, he’s not shy, of course, he’s terrified. He wants Armie’s mum to like him more than he can fathom, and yet he’s still not able to admit to himself why.

He can see Armie in her, the moment they lock eyes; she has the same life, the same way about her. Timmy only hopes it’ll translate to him just as easily. There’s a knot tying tight in his chest; he cares too much, he cares too much. He supposes this is the easiest way to go about getting himself hurt, and yet here, here he is. He thinks Armie makes him like being terrified.

“This is Timmy.” Armie says, and lets all the pieces fall into place.

Her eyes sink and warm up again, looking over Timmy like she’s trying to commit him entirely to memory. Timmy wants to look to Armie for help, but he doesn’t get very far.

She’s pulling him into a hug, before he can breathe, before he can think. Timmy doesn’t know what to do with this casual kind of affection.

“Oh, sweetheart, you’re so thin, are you—“

“ _Mom.”_ Armie cuts her off, cheeks flushed red. Timmy bites back a grin.

“I’m fine.” Timmy assures her, though she doesn’t seem to believe him.

“Do you want to stay for coffe, love?” She asks. Out of the corner of his eye, Timmy can just make out Armie rolling his eyes.

“I...” Timmy stammers. He realizes suddenly that no one’s ever asked him this before. He looks to Armie.

“Whatever’s fine.” Armie tells him, softly, like they’re the only two people in the room, only two people in the world again.

“Stay.” She suggests, and Timmy lets it all happen around him. As terrified as he is of this, there’s a part of him that wants nothing more than to stay — warm and safe in the present moment.

“Sure.” He says, and watches her face light up.

“I’ll see what we have in.” She mumbles to herself before disappearing down the hallway and into the kitchen.

Armie leans down to whisper into Timmy’s ear. “She’s just trying to feed you.” Timmy snorts. “I’m fine with that.”

“Yeah?” Armie asks him. Timmy nods, tucking his hair behind his ear. “Good, ‘cause she doesn’t ever stop with it.”

Timmy grins up at him, feeling a little lost, a little exposed, when Armie’s mum returns from the kitchen. He flushes. She smiles, first at Armie, and then at him.

“Chicken and potatoes?” She asks, looking directly at Timmy.

He flushes again, feeling nervous and stupid, and strange in this household. “Yeah, that’s... that’s good.”

She nods. “Armie, can you help me get the potatoes out the pantry?”

Armie nods, following her into the kitchen, leaving Timmy stranded in the corridor, trying to put the pieces of everything back together again. He’s not sure if this is easier or harder yet. He’s not sure what to do with himself, so he just follows Armie into the kitchen.

Armie’s mom eyes him hovering by the doorway. “You boys could help if you don’t mind?”

Armie snorts, at what Timmy assumes to be the prospect of Timothée Chalamet helping anybody, and Timmy decides then and there that he’s going to peel potatoes to make a point.

“I don’t mind.” He says, unfolding his arms.

Armie’s mom smiles at him. Still, he can’t figure out whether she likes him, or if this is all just pity. Still, he can’t figure out why this all matters so much. Of course, he knows the answer. The answer’s Armie, coming back in from the pantry. He just doesn’t have the words for it, for him, yet.

“This is a first.” Armie says, looking at Timmy.

Timmy rolls his eyes. “What? Do you think I’ve never peeled a potato before?”

Armie snorts. “Yeah.”

Timmy’s eyes widen and he gets half-way to a ‘fuck you’, before he remembers where he is and who he’s trying to impress, and gets all red in the face. “I...” He chokes out instead.

Armie’s mom grins between them, and offers him a potato peeler. “Prove him wrong.” She says, a brightness to her eyes that Timmy never wants to see extinguished.

Timmy picks up a potato and joins her by the countertop, peeling into a bowl she’s set out for waste.

Armie, then, is stood idle, with his arms across his chest, not sure what to make of him anymore. His mom notices this soon after Timmy does.

“I’m not having you just standing there looking proud of yourself while...” She flounders for the right word, looking over to Timmy, “Your _guest_ is helping—“

Armie doesn’t let her finish, letting out a sigh, and picking up a potato.

“So...” Armie’s mom smiles, standing between the two of them. “Do I get more of an introduction, or is ‘this is Timmy’ all I’m gonna get?” She looks first to Armie, and then to Timmy.

“This is Timmy,” Armie continues, almost absent-mindedly, “He’s in the band now.”

Timmy arches his eyebrows at Armie’s choice of key information. Though he supposes that half of their history is hardly ‘mom-friendly’.

“Oh, really?” She turns back to Timmy. “You sing?” “Well, _yeah.”_ Armie adds.“ Armie.” She lets out a sigh. “I sing.” Timmy says, as nicely as he’s able.

“He’s good too.” Armie affirms. “Like for real good.” “Why do you have to say that... like _every_ time anyone mentions it?” Timmy asks, letting out a sigh.

“‘Cause it’s true.” Armie shrugs, cheeks a little pink. “And you can’t hardly go around saying it, ‘cause then you’re just gonna sound arrogant.”

“Yeah, and you just end up sounding obsessed with me.” Timmy counters. Armie snorts, looking down. He’s not sure he even has a retort for that.

“Mm.” Armie’s mom nods, looking off into the distance like she’s really thinking about how to say something. “Are you two together?”

Armie stumbles and almost cuts himself. Timmy just goes frozen all over. She looks expectantly between the two boys, forever trying to read them.

“Um...” Timmy begins, as Armie seems unable to speak. “Sort of.” He says, looking to Armie for help.

“Sort of?” She asks him.

“Not properly,” Timmy says, “But in principle.”

She arches her eyebrows. “Sort of.” She repeats to herself, shaking her head.

Armie meets Timmy’s gaze, but Timmy shoots him a look like ‘what the fuck else was I supposed to say?’.

“I mean,” Armie begins, trying to make something of the pieces, “We are, just, we’re not like... _dating_ but we are, I suppose ‘together’... more loosely.”

His mom only arches her eyebrows again. “Sounds all a bit unnecessarily complicated in my opinion.”

Timmy catches his breath, and takes the opportunity to shoot Armie a look of his own.

“It’s none of this you don’t want to admit you like boys business?” She says suddenly, looking up at Timmy. “‘Cause that never ends well, does it Armie?”

Armie flushes bright red; Timmy thinks about the few stories Armie had told him before. “No.” Timmy laughs. “I’m _very_ queer.”

“Good, I didn’t think so, I mean...” She looks over him, and tries to think of a way to formulate a comment that isn’t going to sound insensitive.

Timmy just smiles and nods and tries to assure her that he knows what she means. Armie’s eyes are on him, like he’s trying to make Timmy look at him, but Timmy doesn’t dare let things get messier.

“Um...” Timmy flushes instead, putting the potato down, he’s dying for a moment to catch his breath — to think about who he is and what he’s doing here. It’s all gone to mess in his head. “Where’s the bathroom?”

“Oh, just down the hallway, love, you’ll see it on the left.”

Timmy nods a vague thanks, and continues to avoid Armie’s gaze as he stumbles out of the kitchen.

He barely gets through the doorway, before conversation starts up again, and Timmy doesn’t mean to eavesdrop, Timmy doesn’t mean to hover listening, but Armie’s mum is talking far louder than quietly.

“Be careful with him,” She says to Armie, and Timmy’s frozen in place, unable to stay, unable to move, he’s just letting the words crash around him like waves.

“He loves you.” She says again. Timmy stomach bottoms out. “He’s not going to say it, but I can see it, easily enough.”

There’s a long breath of silence, and Timmy’s trying to read Armie just from the silence. He wants to know what he’s feeling. He wants to know what he’s thinking. Because with his mom’s words let off like a bomb, Timmy finds a knife in his chest, slowly twisting.

“Yeah.” Armie breathes out at last, quieter, so Timmy has to strain to hear him, but he’s beyond shame at this point. “More like the other way around.” Armie lets out a sigh.

Timmy’s heart stops dead in his chest.

“It goes both ways.” She says, with warm, with confidence, with ease. “And that’s why I’m telling you to be careful with him, ‘cause there’s a lot of love there, between you, and in one way of looking at it, that’s just a lot of things to hurt yourselves with.”

Armie is silent again.“Not that that’s the only way of looking at it.” She adds. “Mom.” Armie says, voice faded out into a groan. “Just stop.” “It goes both ways.” She says again, almost like she’s teasing him, and Timmy feels like he wants to open up his chest and throw all of his organs out.

He forces himself away and into the bathroom.

He locks the door, stares at his white faced reflection in the mirror, braces his hands against the sink. He can’t do this. He can’t do this. He can’t just have a panic attack in somebody else’s bathroom, and not even just somebody else, but Armie.

Armie. Armie. Fucking Armie.

It goes both ways. Timmy’s head feels like a hurricane. Fuck. He breathes in, but gets lost again on the way out. Fuck.

It wasn’t never supposed to be like this. He was never supposed to let himself get this close, they were never supposed to be meeting mothers and saying the L word and fucking peeling potatoes in the kitchen. This should have stopped at Europa, the first night. Timmy should have stopped him when Armie got his hands all over Timmy’s body and started talking emotion and politics, but he wanted it. He wanted to let him in.

Timmy breathes out a sigh.

He thinks about fucking somebody else. He thinks about making this all disappear. But love is like a blood stain all over him — it won’t ever wash out to crystal clean porcelain.

Fuck. He tells his reflection, and puts himself back together the best he can.

He flushes the toilet, washes his hands, unlocks the bathroom door, and appears back in the kitchen, like nothing ever happened.

He lets Armie and his mum talk over him while he peels potatoes, he’s trying to drown this all out, and make desperate sense of the present, of that one little word, but it doesn’t come. Nothing ever comes easily.

And they sit down for dinner, with more immediate family, and more casual conversations. He sits too close to Armie, though he’s scared suddenly of what it all means, but he feels Armie’s sister watching him like she’s trying to take him apart into different puzzle pieces, and he’s never felt more fragile. They don’t speak anymore of the difficult conversations, there’s no ‘are you together?’ where the whole family can hear, and Timmy supposes they don’t talk about those things out in the open. He’s almost glad for it, on that occasion.

He feels a little too relieved when it’s time to leave, and it’s him and Armie in the hallway, and Armie is trying to tempt him either back out or upstairs for another cigarette, for another excuse to get his hands on Timmy’s body again. Timmy smiles, looks down, blushing, lying. He has an awful lot to think about.

“See you around, alright.” Timmy says, like they’re strangers, backing out through the doorway. Armie grins at him, and beckons him back closer. “What?” Timmy asks, flustered.

“I haven’t kissed you yet.” Armie tells him, and looks briefly over his shoulder. They have maybe a two minute window, while everyone else is still distracted in the kitchen.

Timmy’s heart stammers in his chest. “Do you _have_ to? Is this what we do now? Kiss each other goodbye like we’re thirty years married?”

“I think if we were thirty years married we wouldn’t be living in separate houses.” Armie says, and kisses him anyway.

“Yeah.” Armie nods, watching Timmy retreat back up the driveway. “See you around.”

* * *

He treads mud over the front steps and onto the doormat. He lingers, strange, feeling out of the place. He takes the shoes off, fuck, he could take his skin off, and he’d feel dirty all the same. He presses his hands to the plaster, and wants to feel the walls cave in.

“Mom?” He calls out, hesitantly. There’s no one home. There’s no one in.

The stairs creak under him. He finds a cigarette, a bottle with something strong in. He finds his new favorite perfume and sprays it everywhere, he finds a windowsill, he cranks open the glass and lets the night air in.

Armie is out there, on the horizon, made of stardust and difficult conversations, sitting smoking by the windowsill of his own room, loving him. Timmy lets himself love him back, for just a fraction of a second.

Fuck.

He finds his feet again. His feet find him. He turns his room into a car cash. He thinks of the dozen boys that have stood here with him before — he can never wash them out. They’re all over, everywhere, not just on his body, but in the room, leaving stains, marks, mementos, old forgotten possessions that Timmy doesn’t know what to do with.

 _’I’m sorry.’_ He tells himself, because no one else is listening. He loves him. He knows that when he opens the bottle, but he wants to fucking drown the feeling.

This isn’t safe, this is pure danger, and it makes him think that he never wanted dangerous at all.

He stares back out into the twilight and thinks about Armie, of kissing in bars, of the motel room, of Timmy’s last show, of late night drives, and pulling over by the side of the road, crying, kissing in the rain, hearing I love yous, and losing it all.

Timmy reaches for his notebook and starts to write it all down into a song. Fuck. He grinds his teeth, he smokes through too many cigarettes, but fuck, at least he’s making something of this. At least one day maybe he’ll be able to look Armie in the eyes and sing this all in a song. Fucking Armie. Timmy finishes the lyrics, finishes his cigarettes, and wonders if Armie is still awake.

Part of him wants to call, to know, to ask, to get him over the phone and tell him that he heard, tell him that it’s eating him from the inside, tell him that he has all these feelings, he’s just terrified about doing anything with them.

He doesn’t call in the end, because he doesn’t want to get Armie’s sister, or worse, Armie’s mom, and he doesn’t want to explain why he’s calling the house he left just hours ago. He throws himself into bed and stares up at the ceiling, seeing phantom boys on top of him again. This was how it always was. Too many times.

 _’It goes both ways.’_ The twilight seems to say, and that’s the last thing he remembers, before he falls asleep.


	8. VIII.

Armie calls him for the first time that morning. Timmy stands in the hallway, smoking a cigarette.

He looks at this house with resentment, and wants to get it as dirty as he feels inside.

“Hi,” Armie says, slow and senseless, like talking to a stranger. Timmy wonders if that’s what they are now, with the days between them.

“Hi.” Timmy says back.

“I’ve been busy, I’m sorry, I—“

“I’ve been busy too.” Timmy lies, talking to the walls.

“Yeah.” Armie sighs. It’s been only a few days, and yet he sounds defeated through and through.

“Did you fuck anyone else?” Timmy asks, because the moment the thought pops into his head, he just can’t rid himself of it.

“What?” Armie stammers. “In four days? Timmy, no. Did you?”

“No.” Timmy tells the carpet. This time, he feels worse because it’s the truth.

“There’s nothing up, at least not for me. Look, I had to do double shifts at work because this girl’s sick, and I’ve had to help more at home, ‘cause my dad’s not home right now, as you know. It’s been four days, it’s not like... it’s been months.”

Timmy sighs. “I fucking miss you, though.”

“Then come over.” Armie tells him.

“I’m scared.” Timmy says, before he can stop himself. “That’s what’s up, Armie. I’m terrified. Not of you, but of myself, but of...” He trails off, pressing a hand to his heart, and wishing that Armie could just read him.

“Actually—“ Armie interjects suddenly. “You’ve probably forgotten, haven’t you? but band practice, this afternoon. At Will’s.”

“Yeah.” Timmy sighs, thinking of the lyrics, of song after song, everything in his head is Armie, and he doesn’t know what to do with that at all.

“So I could come pick you up now or something, and we can...” He trails off. “Talk? Before.”

“What about fuck?” Timmy suggests, staring out into space. “Just fuck me, Armie, then we don’t need to talk about anything.”

Armie laughs. “You knew what you were getting into from the first time.” Timmy arches his eyebrows. “And I’m still here.” “Yeah.” Armie says softly. “You’re still here.” Timmy stubs out his cigarette.

“Give me like fifteen minutes.”

“Yeah.”

“Bye.”

“Yeah. Bye.”

Timmy puts the phone back on the hook. The words ‘love you’ die in his throat. He wants to tear them out, but he’s stood in the hallway, looking a mess, with Armie coming over in fifteen. Fuck. If only he could learn to do something and think about it first.

He puts his hair up, and stares into his wardrobe. He thinks about putting a dress on, just to hammer home a point, and he fingers the dark velvet slip dress that he’s sure used to be an old, old, old girlfriend’s once. He imagines Armie fucking him in that. And pushes the thought quickly back out of his head again. He’s looking for clarity, for sanity, he reminds himself, for calm in the eye of the storm.

He puts on jeans and a t-shirt.

Sure, they’re the tightest, blackest jeans in existence, and the t-shirt, though displaying a faded band print, is so small for him that it shows a line of milky white skin whenever he raises his hands above his head, but this feels ordinary, or as close to ordinary as he’s going to get.

This is who he needs to be. He tells himself, and hurries downstairs to put shoes on, and for the first time in months, pulls on boots without a heel. This is who he needs to be, for the moment, when he has to set everything straight, when Armie has to really decide whether he loves all of him or not.

He smokes a cigarette on the street corner and waits for Armie to show up.

“Hey gorgeous.” He says, rolling down his window. He leans out and properly looks Timmy over, and wants to say something about it, but doesn’t quite know how to.

Timmy climbs into the passenger’s seat, and continues smoking his cigarette out the window. “Hey.” Armie says again, trying to get his attention. Timmy turns, and meets his gaze, properly.

“You look nice.” Armie says.

Timmy pulls a face, “You’re only saying that ‘cause I don’t.”

Armie narrows his eyes. “You look nice. You look like a boy. Those things aren’t mutually exclusive.”

Timmy sighs, kicking his feet up onto the dashboard.“I just couldn’t be bothered.” He says, finally. “I mean, what am I dressing up for? Not for you, you’re... already... I don’t need to impress you.” Armie frowns. “You never need to impress anybody.”

“It’s not just about that.” Timmy sighs. “I’m saying everything wrong. You only gave me fifteen minutes. Let’s say that instead.”

Armie smiles. “You asked for fifteen.”

“I wanted to see you.” Timmy admits, feeling something tighten up inside of his chest.

“Yeah?” Armie asks.

“Yeah.”

“Where are we going first then?” Armie asks, getting his hands back on the wheel. Timmy stares out the window, and thinks of everywhere, nowhere, infinity.

“Anywhere.” He says, closing his eyes. “Surprise me, Armie.”

“What?” Armie laughs. “Am I all boring now?”

“No.” Timmy sighs, looking down. “But sometimes I almost wish you were.”

Armie laughs again. “Why?”

“Because then it would be easier. Then I’d always know where I stand.” Timmy finishes his cigarette and lets the stub fly out of the window.

Armie arches his eyebrows at him in the rear view mirror. Timmy sighs, and shuffles down into his seat. He’s trying to focus on worrying about the present, taking everything step by step, moment by moment, the world in pieces.

He closes his eyes again, and lets himself listen to the static. Armie is taking him somewhere, but he doesn’t know where yet. He trusts him too much. Timmy recognizes the feeling in his chest, but for the life of him, can’t figure out what to do with it.

“We’re here.” Armie says, pulling up into one of these towns in the middle of nowhere. Timmy opens his eyes and learns how to forget himself. Everything is pretty trees and small shop fronts with vintage styling. Timmy calls it all a perfect reason, an easy excuse, to feel as lost as he does.

“Where is here, exactly?” Timmy asks, sitting back up.

Armie points out a café on the corner, with big open windows. It takes Timmy a moment to make sense of everything.

“Is this meant to be a date?” He turns back to Armie. Armie flushes a little. “It’s whatever you want it to be.”

“A date...” He looks back and forth between Armie and the café. “You’re... trying to take me on a date? Me—“

“Timothée fucking Chalamet.” Armie finishes for him, rolling his eyes. “I’ve been _inside_ of you, and this is what you’re calling too intimate.”

“Armie, half the city’s fucked me, but... a date...?” Timmy frowns. “And a proper date, not just come and let me fuck you in the toilets of this bar, but like... no alcohol, mid-morning... like...” Timmy looks back to Armie.

Armie rolls his eyes. “We can go somewhere else if you absolutely have to.”

“No.” Timmy says, frowning, he looks down into his lap. “It’s just... no one’s ever taken me on a date before.”

Armie doesn’t quite know what to say to that, so he just looks over him, gaze attentive and hovering.

“And I’m not even dressed nice.” Timmy lets out a sigh.

“I told you.” Armie says, leaning closer. “You’re gorgeous.”

“You’re full of shit.” Timmy looks up and tells him.

“You’re scared.” Armie tells him the truth.

“I don’t do dates.” Timmy admits. “I don’t do... trusting people, and feeling like I don’t have to impress them, and I don’t do peeling potatoes with their mom, and I...”

“But you do.” Armie tells him, kissing him softly. “You do now.”

Timmy reaches for his hand. “Armie,” He says, looking down. A million words, a thousand questions, all bubble to the surface.

“Yeah?” Armie asks him. Timmy lets go of his hand. “Thanks for letting me be scared.” He says, instead of a real answer. Armie smiles. “Like I could’ve had any choice.”

Timmy kisses him again, just briefly, on the cheek, but it means so much more. He runs then, just to get some space between them, to linger on the pavement, to fumble with a cigarette. He wants to feel all strange and normal again, but he knows that he’s never going to stop wanting Armie’s eyes all over him.

* * *

Timmy puts his heart into the ashtray, just to stop it floundering in his chest, he supposes it was all smoke and ash all along anyway. Armie is watching him, from behind his mug of coffee; Timmy wonders if the world can see him shaking.

“No one’s looking at us.” Armie tells him, like he can read Timmy’s mind.

Timmy makes a face like he doesn’t quite believe him. He glances around the café, and though he catches no one’s eye, he doesn’t feel quite convinced.

“Do you want to talk, then, or...?” Armie trails off. “Just sit here panicking?”

Timmy rolls his eyes. “I don’t know, Armie. You’re the one that took me on a date. What do people do on dates?”

“Have a good time, usually.” Armie suggests, setting his mug back down onto the table. Timmy snorts. “Oh yeah, I’m sure having difficult conversations is gonna be an absolute laugh.”

Armie raises his eyebrows. “What kind of conversations did you have in mind?” “Well...” Timmy trails off, stammering, “I mean... I don’t even know, Armie. Just...”

“Something’s up.” Armie tells him again, as not to let him forget it. Timmy shrugs. “Yeah, but—“

“Are you gonna tell me what it is?” Armie asks, leaning a little closer.

Timmy blushes. “I don’t... Armie, I don’t really know what it is myself.”

“Then tell me what you know.” Armie says, like it’s always been simple.

Timmy sighs. “I know that I’m scared. I know that I’m not used to this, not used to any of this. But I know that I care about you.”

Armie smiles. “I care about you too.”

Timmy sighs, heart dragging in his chest. “God, I know, Armie. It’s all I can think about — you definitely don’t have to say it.”

“Would you rather I _didn’t_ care about you?” Armie arches his eyebrows. “God, yeah, it might make this all a little easier.” Armie snorts. “You’ve got a weird way of defining easier.”

“You’re cute.” Timmy tells him, and lights himself a cigarette.

Armie laughs, just thinking for a moment. “I’ve never met anyone like you, you know?”

“Yeah.” Timmy smiles. “I know.”

Static fills the air again. Timmy lets himself drown in it, as he smokes through his cigarette. Armie is watching him, always watching him, trying to solve him like a puzzle, but Timmy knows already, that by the time Armie’s got him all figured out, there’ll be no happy ending.

“You’re looking around again.” Armie sighs. “Timmy, no one’s staring.”

Timmy shakes his head, leaning back in his chair. “It’s not even _that,_ I just feel... on edge...”

“Mm?” Armie asks.

“Tense.” Timmy takes a drag of his cigarette. “I can’t wait to play later. That’s when this all just melts away, you know? This is what I mean when I said I need a band, Armie.”

“Mm.” Armie sighs. “What you need is stop thinking like everyone in the world is against you.” “Well...” Timmy makes a face. “You know me — aren’t they?” “You’re cute.” Armie says, mirroring him.

Timmy rolls his eyes.

“Do you wanna go drive for a bit?” Armie asks, finishing his coffee.

“Yeah.” Timmy says, letting go of everything.

Armie nods and looks like he wants to take Timmy’s hand as they walk out onto the street. Timmy feels the static in his mind again, louder than he’s ever felt it before.

“You care.” Armie says, as they cruise through the streets, and the buildings turn back into countryside again.

Timmy raises his eyebrows, turning his gaze away from the window.

“About what people think about you.” Armie clarifies. “You put on this big show like you don’t give a shit, like you’re untouchable, but it’s all just compensating.” He smiles at him.

Timmy bites his lip. Suddenly he doesn’t know how to lie, or at least how to lie in a way that Armie will believe.

“How did you figure that out?” Timmy says, trying to put a barb in his voice, but not getting very far.

“You in that café.” Armie says. “I thought it weird that someone like you, someone who’s fucked, as you claim, ‘half the city’, can’t just sit in a café with a boy.”

Timmy sighs. “Being openly queer is a very different experience in a bar, in a gay bar, than a café, don’t you know that, Armie?”

“We weren’t even being ‘openly queer’— fuck, Timmy, if sitting at a table with a man is being ‘openly queer’—“

“It’s ‘cause I look like a boy right now, alright?” Timmy says, louder than he’d intended to.

Armie almost stalls the car.

“I...” Timmy frowns. “Maybe I still have all this internalized homophobia, you know? And I always laugh at the kind of straight guys who fuck me for that, but like... why am I so fixated on straight guys fucking me whilst they’re trying to pretend I’m a girl? I don’t know, Armie, I’m not a therapist, but there’s gotta be some connection in that.”

Armie pulls the car up into a lay-by, and turns to give Timmy his full attention.

“I mean...” Timmy stammers, undoing his seatbelt, and turning to face Armie properly. “I don’t want to be a girl, it’s not like that, it’s just... god, Armie, I don’t know... maybe it’s just a way of not really dealing with it. Never really properly dealing with the fact that I’m queer, ‘cause I mean, growing up... I didn’t get to have healing and acceptance, it was all... nobody gets to grow up queer and have it easy.”

Armie nods. “And this is why all this is freaking you out, do you think? ‘Cause it’s different, and doing it properly.”

“Yeah, Armie, ‘cause you’re having me... sit on a date in a café, ‘cause you’re calling me beautiful even when I’m just like this. I mean, in theory, this is the most uncomplicated thing in the world, but I’m so fucked in the head, I just don’t know how to deal with it.”

Armie thinks for a moment. “Just let it happen. You say you’re scared, but I think that’s a good thing. That means it’s real, that means it matters. And you’re scared, so what? So am I.”

Armie leans in and kisses him — it’s something Timmy’s glad for, even when _’it goes both ways’_ are the only words on his mind. He pulls back and looks Armie over, wondering if he’s really got him all figured out.

It’s still all twisted, the static is still loud. _‘Love’_ is a word thrown around, only to make a mess with, and Timmy doesn’t know how he’s ever going to feel clean again. But Armie is watching him, and listening to him, and taking him to cafés and putting everything right all too easily. It doesn’t feel real; Timmy isn’t sure he deserves this.

He supposes, of course, it will only be a matter of time, before the cracks will start to show, and show them both for who and what they are.

* * *

They’re late to Will’s, and all Timmy has to show for it is a couple of bruises on his neck; he wears his hair down, and hopes it’ll serve as an excuse. Armie is a little distant behind him, still trying to work things out. Timmy supposes Armie had imagined that everything would have clicked perfectly back into place with their conversation, but it’s evidently clear, that it’s nowhere near as easy as that.

Nick stares at Timmy for entirely longer than at all’s necessary. Timmy almost forgets, himself, that he doesn’t let people see him like this. He feels vulnerable, just for a second, but then Armie brushes his arm past him as he goes to set up, and everything starts uncurling in warmth and static.

“You look different.” Nick says, a little too late.“Yeah.” Timmy nods. “I can’t look pretty all the time. It just wouldn’t be fair.”

Armie rolls his eyes, and Timmy suddenly feels a little safer, like life might just start being a little bit easier, though he can never be sure.

Either way, he gets his hands around his guitar and starts to turn everything out into sound, into space, into music. He thinks about the half-finished songs he wrote — the ones about Armie. This isn’t the place for them, not yet, and so they work on old songs, changing and putting bits back together. Timmy focuses on the music until he can’t see anything else, until the static blurs out completely, and until Armie’s gaze fixed onto him, isn’t a constant pressure, but instead a gentle weight forever keeping him grounded.

He wants to write songs about writing songs, about trying to stretch the word ‘love’ around his lips, whilst being careful not to cut it open between his teeth. He recognizes that Armie has given him something here, even if he hasn’t quite said it yet, there’s trust here, as always comes with falling — you have to trust that there’ll be someone to catch you in the end.

He’s curled up into the sofa, trying to catch his breath, Armie has got an arm around his shoulders, pulling him in closer. Will’s reaching for beers, Nick is watching the two of them again, but this time, his gaze doesn’t linger.

“You good?” Armie asks him. Timmy can feel the weight, the proximity of his gaze, but he doesn’t meet it.

“Yeah.” Timmy says, without really thinking about it. “Always.” Armie smiles, like he knows through and through how to tell when Timmy’s lying.

“Hey.” Will says, talking more to Armie than to Timmy, “We were gonna go to that party tonight — that girl who...” He looks to Nick.

“What’s her name?”

“I don’t know.” Nick laughs. “You’re the one who said she was fit.”

“Anyway.” Will rolls his eyes. “Point is, are you... you two coming... or?”

Timmy raises his eyebrows, looking to Armie. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Armie nods.

“It’s that...” Will trails off. “Anna.” He nods. “Who lives other side of town.”

“Mm.” Armie looks to Timmy. “You’ll want to go back home first, though?”

Timmy arches his eyebrows.

Armie just narrows his eyes.

“Yeah.” Timmy says. “I’m not going to a party in a t-shirt.”

Nick and Will share a glance.

Armie snorts. “You’re such a fucking girl.”

“You’re such a fucking asshole.” Timmy says, shaking his head. “And anyway, like you’ll be complaining.”

Armie flushes, looking down.

“Are you two actually dating yet?” Nick asks, like he has a death wish.

“Not technically.” Timmy says, sitting back with a grin.

“Well, you bicker like you’ve been married thirty years.” Will says, raising his eyebrows.

“Don’t say that.” Armie snorts. “He’ll start going off about how he fundamentally disagrees with marriage—“

“I never said that.” Timmy turns to him, with a little too much fervor. “I just said that I don’t like what it’s turned into.”

“Is that what you guys do?” Nick asks. “Sit around and talk about marriage, as friends?”

“Oh yeah, I mean we need something to talk about when we’re not having sex.” Timmy smirks.

“Please, don’t start talking about... that.” Will sighs. “I mean, you’ve gotta get ready for this party, haven’t you?”

“Yeah.” Armie says quickly. “We should go, Timmy.” Timmy rolls his eyes. “Oh, I’m sorry for embarrassing you in front of your friends.” Nick laughs, and starts to look like he’s liking Timmy more and more.“Like I can’t embarrass you more.” Armie says, making eyes at him. “‘Timmy Fucking Chalamet’.” “Look...” Will sighs. “If you’re going to eye fuck each other... please just... do it behind closed doors.” Timmy smirks. “See you later.”

And together they duck under the garage door.

“You’re such a dick.” Armie says, in the driver’s seat.“Thought you liked dick.” Timmy says, lighting himself a cigarette. Armie rolls his eyes. “Are we actually going home then?” “Yeah. To mine.” Timmy says. “Please tell me it’s not actually gonna take you three hours to get ready.” Armie sighs. “Nah.” Timmy grins at him. “Of course not, but I’m good at thinking of things for us to do.” “Yeah?” Armie says.“Yeah.” Timmy says, and sets his sights on the horizon.

* * *

Armie hangs back by the gate for a while, and Timmy doesn’t quite know what to say to him. He’s working his way through a cigarette under the guise of gathering the courage to talk, and to say anything with meaning.

This is his house, and this is the truth, whatever Armie thinks of him.

He turns his key in the lock, and stumbles slowly in. Armie is hesitant, a little way behind him, like he suddenly doesn’t quite know who he is and how he’s supposed to belong in all of this.

Timmy remembers why he doesn’t take people back to his.

The hallway feels cavernous, echoing and empty. The whole house is just the same, but shrouded in the shadows of the early twilight. Armie stubs his half-finished cigarette out into the ashtray on the coffee table. Timmy tries to think of something to say, of something, anything, that just might make sense of this all, because this is the truth as he knows it, the truth as it’s always going to be, the truth as he’s so desperate to hide from anyone and everyone around him.

He looks around this house, and thinks to himself, this is what the reputation’s for. Even if it means nothing, this was how it came to be.

Timmy kicks his shoes off, and silently leads Armie upstairs. Even when they reach the landing, Armie doesn’t say a word; he’s just looking, thinking, surveying, taking everything in as he’s never known it.

Timmy is desperate to think of something to say, if only just to fill the silence, but in failing to do so, he grabs Armie’s hand like a lifeline, and pulls him into his bedroom. It’s only when the door clicks shut behind them, that Timmy starts to catch his breath, starts to gather his thoughts. He knows he’s going to have to say something in time, come up with an explanation for everything, but for all his luck, nothing seems ready to come to mind.

He moves to his wardrobe, trying to pretend like this can all still be about clothes, while Armie sits down on the end of the bed, and just looks around the room. Timmy thinks that in that moment, he’d kill to really know what Armie is thinking.

Timmy reaches into his wardrobe and runs his fingers over fabric; he’s not really fully conscious in the moment, his mind elsewhere, forever panicking, stuck on Armie and the way he’s looking at him. He’s not surprised that when he moves to pull out an item, the moment snaps in two all around him.

“The rumour about you being spoilt and rich...” Armie trails off, still sat on the end of Timmy’s bed. “I mean...”

“True, I guess.” Timmy says, catching his reflection in the mirror opposite. He feels ugly, suddenly, like he needs to compensate for something, like he needs to compensate for this.

“Is it true then that your parents are hardly ever home?” Armie asks, getting to his feet. “I didn’t lie to you, Armie.” Timmy says, throwing out a sigh. Armie takes his hand. “I didn’t mean it like that.” He tells the carpet. “Then how?” Timmy chokes out a sigh. “How did you mean it like?”

“There’s a disconnect.” Armie says. “I’m not sure how you can be spoilt if you don’t get enough of what you need.”

“Enough of what?” Timmy sighs, trying to pull away, just to feel the pressure disperse around him.

Armie meets his eyes.

“Love.” He tells him, and means it.

“My mom does love me.” Timmy laughs in his face, just to steal an opportunity to pull away, just to make sense from the mess in his brain.

“Where is she?” Armie asks him, looking over Timmy with the kind of warmth that Timmy almost wants to shelter himself from. “Where is she, Timmy?”

“Working.” Timmy sighs, and pulls away enough to reach the safety of the windowsill. He wonders how it’s managed to start getting dark already.

“Mm?” Armie asks. He doesn’t follow him, but lingers in his presence nonetheless. “I heard a rumor once that your mom wass on TV.” He seems to laugh at the prospect.

“She is.” Timmy says, staring out at the city.

“What?” Armie stops, and makes a sound like his brain’s twisting, contorting, reconfiguring everything as he knows it.

“Maybe most of the rumors are true.” Timmy says, making eyes at the gossamer reflection of the moon.

“I only believe what you tell me, though.” Armie joins him by the window, reaching for his hand all over again. This time Timmy lets him take it.

“I don’t know if that’s clever or just incredibly stupid.” Timmy says, harbouring a small smile. “I guess it depends on how much you trust me.”

“I trust you.” Armie says, giving his hand a gentle squeeze. “I have to, don’t I?”

_‘It goes both ways.’_

“Yeah.” Timmy supposes, truth twisted in his throat. “I trust you too.” He tells the moon. Armie grins. “Then you should let me pick you something to wear tonight.”

Timmy rolls his eyes, turning back to the wardrobe. “No fucking way.”

Armie snorts, and reaches to turn the light-switch on. They’re bathed then, in golden glow, in warmth, in truth, in everything on clear terms. Timmy feels naked, but warm, but at home. He wants to bury his truth in Armie’s throat.

Armie ignores Timmy’s protests and sorts through his wardrobe nonetheless. Timmy swats his hand away.

“I already know what I’m wearing.” He says, shooting Armie a look.“Then what am I supposed to do?” Armie makes a face. “Just sit and watch you undress?” “Oh, yeah.” Timmy rolls his eyes. “I’m sure that’ll be really fucking boring for you.”

Armie snorts, and moves to the other side of Timmy’s room, taking in everything again, knowing the world as he sees it, and not as he’s been told it would be. This time, Timmy lets him, and searches his wardrobe for something that really demands the world’s attention.

There’s a blue velvet slip dress that he’s had for years but never had the courage to wear, and he thinks this is the night to feel fearless like no other. Armie’s back is turned, still fixated on the cluttered contents of Timmy’s shelves, by the time he pulls it out of the wardrobe.

Timmy struggles to bite back a smirk as he holds the dress up against himself in the mirror. He leaves the dress out on his bed, and turns to make sense of whatever has harbored Armie’s attention for so long.

“I can’t believe that’s you.” He says, when Timmy gets close. Timmy watches as he retrieves an old framed photograph from the shelf.

Timmy sighs, taking it from Armie’s hands. “I was like fifteen in that. fifteen and with my best friends.” He gets this sudden pang of nostalgia, followed by one of guilt; he hates to say it, but everything felt so much simpler then.

“You still talk to those friends?” Armie asks, looking at the photograph over Timmy’s shoulder. Timmy y points to one of the girls. “She’s the one that moved away. I told you about her once.” Armie nods.

Timmy points to the other. “She’s still here. Just not here in the same way I am, just not here in the same places I am.” He puts the photograph back down. “And we fucked once. Things got weird after that.”

Armie’s eyes widen. “How old were you then?” Timmy shrugs. “I guess, fifteen. Maybe sixteen. Somewhere in between.” Armie snorts. “fifteen and a half?”

“Yeah, fuck it, whatever.” He puts the photograph back up on the shelf. “A lot of things stop making sense once you take them out of the moment, when they’re just in photographs, when they’re just people you used to let have your whole world.”

Timmy looks to Armie for a moment.

“Will this stop making sense?” Armie asks, looking to the polaroid camera up on the shelf. “If I put it in photographs?”

Timmy smiles. “I think you’re in luck — it never made sense in the first place.”

Armie reaches for the camera, and takes a picture of Timmy, before he can even recognize that it’s happening.

“What did you do that for?” Timmy asks, frowning. “I couldn’t get ready—“

“I didn’t want you to get ready.” Armie tells him, setting the picture down on the desk beside the camera. “I wanted it to be honest, to be natural. I think sometimes things stop making sense in photographs because they were never honest.”

Timmy frowns.

Armie points back to the picture of fifteen year old Timmy. “That girl who you said you fell out with — you’re both still smiling at each other in the picture.”

“Maybe it was before.” Timmy shrugs. Armie holds his gaze. “But maybe it was after, and you’ll never know that for sure.”

“Fine.” Timmy says, and reaches for the camera. He takes a picture of Armie, again without warning.

Armie smiles at him, setting them out to develop side by side. “You keep the one of me. I’ll keep the one of you.” He swallows his words. “Forever.”

“God, Armie.” Timmy rubs his eyes. “Don’t fucking say it like that. Don’t say it like you’re going to disappear.”

Armie smiles at him. “But we don’t know what’s going to happen next, do we?”

“No.” Timmy sighs, and leans up to kiss him. “But...” He says, meeting Armie’s gaze. “It’s not tomorrow today.”

Armie pulls away, rolling his eyes. “You’re cute.” He tells him.“Yeah.” Timmy bites his lip. “I know.” 

_It goes both ways. It goes both ways. It goes both ways._

“I have a whole album of photos,” He says, “If you want to look at them. In that drawer.”

Armie follows Timmy’s finger but gets stuck half-way there, when his line of sight falls over the dress laid out on the bed. He freezes, his Adam’s apple sinking his throat, like he just doesn’t know what to say.

Timmy smirks.

“You’re wearing that?” Armie manages at last.“Yeah.” Timmy says, picking it up to hold it back up against him. “God.” Armie says, taking in a deep breath.

“Calm down.” Timmy points accusingly at him. “I haven’t even taken my jeans off yet.” Armie grins, sitting down in the desk chair, and just watching.

“Oh for fuck’s sake, Armie.” Timmy turns and catches him staring. “Be fucking useful and go get some wine out of the kitchen.”

Armie arches his eyebrows. “I want red wine.” Timmy says. “Get whatever you want as well.” “I’m driving.” Armie reminds him. Timmy shakes his head. “We’ll take the bus. Red wine.” “Red wine.” Armie snorts. “You’re such an ass.” “You love my ass.” Timmy says, smirking at him. “Yeah.” Armie says, half-way through the bedroom door. “I do.”

Timmy uses the window of time without Armie incessantly staring at him, both to try and lose the red in his cheeks, and to get this dress on. Part of him is still scared that it’ll look stupid on, and he wants to be able to make that judgment for himself.

He stands in front of the mirror for a while, now with just the dress on, trying to make sense of what he’s seeing. Because it’s not that it looks bad, it looks good, but it looks—

“Fucking hell.” Armie says, appearing suddenly in the doorway. Timmy startles, cheeks burning red.

“You look...” Armie sets a bottle of red wine and two glasses down on the desk. “Hot.” Armie says in the end.

Timmy covers his face with his hands. “I still need to do my make up.” “Mmm.” Armie says, getting up into his space. “Let me kiss you first then.”

Armie pulls Timmy’s hands back from his face. “Hey.” He says, almost in a whisper. “You look beautiful.”

Timmy sighs, and lets Armie kiss him, just so he doesn’t have to come up with anymore excuses.

“Now, come on.” Armie says, pouring wine into the glasses. “Do your make up. It’s fucking dark already.”

Timmy grins to himself, and reaches for his make up bag.

“You’re sweet, you know that?” He tells Armie.

Armie smirks. “You’re sweeter.”

Timmy turns; he feels dizzy with a sickening kind of deja vu, like there’s another boy behind him, standing in Armie’s shoes. “What? So sweet that I’m fucking spoilt?”

And Timmy wants Armie to say something heartfelt, something meaningful, something that’ll make his head spin, something that’ll give him a real reason to fall in love with him, but Armie just says, “Timmy, you’re not a fucking piece of fruit.”


	9. IX.

Timmy catches his reflection in the window, backlit by the fluorescent city lights. Tonight he looks like the kind of girl boys want to fall in love with; he wonders if he made a mistake in that.

“This lipstick looks good on you.” Armie says, into his ear. The bus out of the city is pretty desolate at night, but still, they’re cautious not to be overheard.

Timmy flushes a little, but makes a display out of rolling his eyes to try and win back a little of his reputation. “Is that what you like?” He asks, making eyes at Armie, like there’s no one else in the world.

Armie gives him a gentle shove, forever teasing. He turns away for a moment, before turning back to meet his own reflection, illuminated in the darkness.

 _“I_ look good on you.” Timmy says, giving into the warmth bubbling up inside of his chest. Suddenly he wants to let go — to let go of everything.

Armie grins, staring straight at Timmy’s reflection. “You look unbelievable.” He tells him softly, but that time they reach their stop before Timmy can think of any kind of witty response.

The air’s colder than Timmy’d anticipated it to be once they get out into the town. Armie assures him that they only have to walk a few streets, but Timmy steals his jacket nonetheless. He burrows into it, and for more than just warmth.

“You’re cute.” Armie tells him again, and uses the drink as an easy excuse.

Timmy flutters his eyelashes at him, and for that moment, and that moment alone, feels fucking invincible. This is the kind of version of himself he wants to keep, he wants Armie to keep, immortalized in a polaroid picture, and not nervous hesitant, raking over memories, bedroom Timmy. But he thinks Armie knows that, and that’s exactly why he’s kept it like that.

The house is unfathomably easy to find, even for Timmy who doesn’t know the house nor the person hosting. It’s lit up in the street, and buzzing with a collection of strange sounds, it almost seems like a portal to another world, sat idle between two houses.

Timmy turns to Armie and says, “That’s gonna get shut down, maybe within minutes.” Armie grins. “Her neighbors are away.” “Fuck her neighbors.” Timmy laughs, “I think the whole street can hear it.” “Come on.” Armie says, and gets his arm around Timmy’s waist.

It’s easier than Timmy had anticipated, to get in through the door, though the house seems to be swarming like a hive, there’s no one keeping a hold on it. All in all, he’s sure that this party seems like a recipe for disaster, and yet, it only intrigues him all the more.

When they first stumble inside, they find the living room to be a swarming pit of claustrophobia; Timmy has to hold tight to Armie’s hand as not to lose him. Armie drags them out of the crowd, trying to find a little room to breathe in the kitchen. The room’s still crowded, but Armie’s face lights up like he recognizes a few faces, and Timmy supposes that’ll have to do while he catches his breath.

Armie nods to him, saying something indistinguishable over the music, before heading up to a blonde girl, who he proceeds to talk animatedly to. Timmy watches them for a moment, slouched back against the wall, feeling an odd kind of burning jealousy in the pit of his stomach. God, he tells himself, he hates this. Not even the paranoia of it, but the fucking mindless affection. He reaches into Armie’s jacket and takes a swig of the half-empty bottle of wine they’d bought with them.

“Hey.” There’s a voice, there’s a guy, lingering at the edge of Timmy’s space, but Timmy doesn’t want to take his eyes off Armie long enough to turn to acknowledge him.

“Hey.” Timmy responds, continuing to stare at and scrutinize every second of Armie and this girl’s conversation.

The guy makes a sound like he’s amused, and moves to stand directly in Timmy’s eye-line, and right in front of Armie.

Timmy’s stuck, forced to stare hopelessly up at him.

“I’m Saul.” He says, pushing a can into Timmy’s hand.

Timmy looks down at it. At the very least, it’s still sealed shut, so he thinks why the fuck not. “Timmy.” He says, and tips back a little.

“What I can’t work out.” Saul says, moving animatedly as talks — a clear sign of intoxication that amuses Timmy more than it should.

“Mm?” Timmy nods, prompting him. He’s desperate just to keep an eye on Armie, but he can’t make him out now the crowds in the room have shifted to lay a barrier between them. He wonders briefly, if Armie is looking for him.

“Is whether you’re a boy or a girl.” He reaches out and traces the one of the straps of Timmy’s dress with his fingertips. The gesture’s a little uncomfortable, but Timmy lets him do it all the same.

Timmy snorts. “Do you wanna find out? Or are you specifically looking for one and not the other?”

“I can be flexible.” He says, tracing fingertips up Timmy’s neck and to his jaw.

“So can I.” Timmy grins, opening his eyes wide and hungry.

“Do I not get any clues?” Saul teases, cupping Timmy’s jaw in his hand, forcing Timmy to look up at him.

Timmy grins. “I don’t give anything away for nothing.”

“Ah, but I gave you that drink.” Saul reminds him.

Timmy sighs, meeting his gaze. “What do you want from this? What do you want from me?”

He reaches for Timmy’s hand, and before Timmy can protest, places it on the hard outline forming in his jeans.

Timmy pulls away, making a face. “You really don’t know how to treat a lady.” “Good thing I’m more convinced you’re a guy then.” He grins. Timmy raises his eyebrows. “And you’re what? Bisexual?” “No.” He laughs, as if the concept were ridiculous. “Straight, but fucking look at yourself.”

Timmy sighs, and wonders what he’ll come out with this time. “You’re fit.” He says. “You’re fucking fit.”

Timmy smiles, trying to awkwardly accept the compliment. He wonders where Armie is, and how it seemed like he’d initially promised that he’d only be a minute. He wonders where Armie is, not that he feels like he needs rescuing, but maybe just because he wants to be.

“Anyway.” He says, sensing Timmy’s growing disinterest. “Here’s how it is, we both sneak off to bathroom — you get me off, I get you off. It’s fair isn’t it? Maybe get a snog out of it.”

Maybe just for the sake of excuses, Timmy says, “I have a boyfriend,” And pushes past him, desperate to try and find Armie again. Though the room seems to have grown far more crowded in just the space of a few minutes.

“What?” Saul says again, in Timmy’s ear. “The guy talking to that chick?” He snorts. “Sounds like one hell of a boyfriend. Real nice guy.”

“Yeah, he is, ‘cause haven’t you heard?” Timmy turns, before storming off. “People can have conversations without wanting to fuck each other.”

He finds Armie with the same girl out having a smoke on the patio. He doesn’t even think as he barges through the patio doors and inserts himself into their conversation.

“Fucking hell, Armie, why have you left me alone with that fucking weirdo?” He shakes his head, getting closer to Armie than is probably at all necessary.

Armie smirks. “Thought you were having fun.”

Timmy makes a face like he’s about to throw up. “He took my hand and made me touch his dick with it, Jesus Christ. Like through his jeans, but still—“

“I swear that’s assault.” The girl says, and Timmy suddenly feels guilty for almost purposefully ignoring her.

Timmy shrugs. “Happens all the time. Oh, I’m Timmy by the way.”

“Yeah.” She smiles. “I know who you are. I’m Elizabeth.”

Timmy looks up to Armie, as if demanding further explanation.

“God, don’t get jealous every time I talk to another human being.” Armie shakes his head, but pulls an arm in around Timmy’s waist all the same.

“Oh, are you two together?” Elizabeth asks, gesturing between the two of them. “Sort of.” Armie says. “Mostly.”

“You know?” Timmy says, grin painted bright on his lips. “I told that guy you were my boyfriend, and he still wouldn’t leave me alone.”

“Surprised the word ‘boyfriend’ didn’t send you into an ‘I have commitment issues’ kinda breakdown?” Armie smirks, taking a drag of his cigarette.

“Should I leave you two alone?” Elizabeth asks, stepping away.

“It’s fine, you don’t have to—” Armie rushes to assure her.

Timmy doesn’t say anything, but nods fervently in a way that Armie doesn’t notice until it’s too late.

“Manners.” Armie tells him. “Have you ever heard of them?”

“Yeah.” Timmy shrugs, stealing Armie’s cigarette from his fingers. “But I get fucking jealous when you talk to pretty girls.”

He passes the cigarette back and takes another swig of the can. “Oh, and I’m still carrying this wine bottle around in your jacket.”

Armie snorts. “You want the jacket? You have to carry it.” Timmy rolls his eyes. _“Fine.”_

“I really wasn’t intending to fuck her, you know?” Armie starts again, seemingly amused by the prospect. “We went to school together. I just hadn’t seen her in a while.”

“Mm.” Timmy sighs.

“And anyway,” Armie raises his eyebrows, “It’s not very fair if you can fuck other guys, but the moment I breathe near someone else you start having a fit.”

“It’s not just someone else, Armie.” Timmy sighs, finishing the can. “It’s girls.”

Armie frowns.

“I just feel...” He sighs, looking down at himself. “I don’t fucking know. Not good enough, not feminine enough, like I’m in competition—”

Armie stops him right there and kisses him. He kisses him like he really means it, like he wants nothing more in the world, like there’s nothing beyond the cold air of the garden, like they’re totally alone at this party.

Timmy breathes Armie in like he’s the only scent there is.

“There’s no fucking competition.” Armie tells him, and meets his gaze like he truly means it. Timmy’s head scatters again, echoing with a concoction of bad memories.“There’s no fucking competition.” He murmurs aloud, saying back to himself.

 _‘It goes both ways.’_ The voice in his head replies.

Timmy suddenly feels sick.

“Fuck, I...” Timmy stammers, trying to take deep breaths.

“You okay?” Armie asks him, suddenly distant and secondary as Timmy stares out at the horizon.

“No.” Timmy almost laughs at himself. He reaches back for Armie’s cigarette. “God... I feel...”

“Don’t tell me that guy put something in your drink—“ “No, I thought about that. Seal was still tight.” Timmy sighs. “Just me being a fucking mess this time.”

Armie smiles, and gets an arm around Timmy’s shoulders. “You’re just fine.” He tells him, though Timmy’s keen to let the words fade out all around them.

“This party’s too fucking busy.” Timmy says suddenly. “We should have gone out to a bar or a club, or somewhere with a bouncer instead.”

Armie about half-way agrees. “I mean, I suppose we came ‘cause Will and Nick asked, but I haven’t seen them anywhere.”

“I bet they’ve ditched after this turned into a shit-show.” Timmy grins, smoking the last of Armie’s cigarette and stubbing it out. “I wouldn’t blame them.”

“We should go find them, though.” Armie says. He looks over Timmy again. “As long as you feel like you aren’t gonna puke.”

“Nah,” Timmy shakes his head, “I’m just... everything’s messy, Armie. You know?”

Armie makes a half-smile like he only partly understands him.

“God.” Timmy sighs, resting his head onto Armie’s shoulder. The words are in his head again, the words are in his head always — _‘It goes both ways’._ He thinks this must be killing him, slowly.

Armie kisses the top of his head, and reaches for his hand. “Come on. I bet they’re just hiding out upstairs. Again.” Armie makes a face.

“Either that or Will’s found that girl he fancies.” Timmy supposes. “You actually pay attention when he starts talking about girls?” Armie frowns in disbelief. “Yeah, some of us have fucking manners, Armie.” Armie laughs, and drags him back inside.

After a struggle through the living room, they manage to make it not only to the staircase, but also successfully up into the landing. That’s where they linger for a while, hesitant to open any bedroom door at a party like this, for fear of having to wash their eyes out with bleach.

Timmy, however, is the first to grow impatient, and notices the other staircase, tucked away between the bathroom and one of the bedrooms. He doesn’t consult Armie, before heading up there. He expects there to be another landing and another set of bedrooms, but behind a single closed door, he finds an attic instead.

The lighting’s so dimmed, it takes a moment for his eyes to get used to it, and so the figures sat around the carpet, recognize him just as he recognizes them.

“Oh, hey, Timmy —“

Timmy turns back over his shoulder and down the staircase. “Armie.” He calls out. “They’re up here.”

Timmy rolls his eyes, waiting a few moments for Armie to catch up. Timmy uses the time to pay the figures more attention, and recognizes them as Will and Nick, and the same Tyler from the first party — the one that was never really supposed to be a party.

“Wait, Timmy...” Nick stops, reaching for the dimmer switch to turn up the lights a little. “Are you wearing a dress?”

“Yeah.” Timmy says, as if it should have been obvious. “And I look good in it.”

“You do.” Armie assures him, though at this point, Timmy’s certain that everything Armie says really means nothing.

“You actually do.” Tyler says, who appears a little warmer to him than last time, and Timmy’s almost keen to find out whether Nick and Will had put in a good word.

“Thanks.” Timmy grins, and sits back onto the rug to join them. Armie sighs and sits with him, deciding that he ultimately has no choice in the matter. Timmy steals Armie’s box of cigarettes from the pocket in his jeans, and offers up the half-empty bottle of wine as if in trade.

“Were there this many people here when you guys turned up?” Armie asks, passing Timmy a lighter without even looking in his direction.

“No.” Will says, “That’s why we’ve had to hide up here, just to be able to breathe. I would leave really, but I’m a bit too drunk to go home.”

“No,” Nick laughs at him, “What it is, is that Anna, who you still haven’t had the guts to talk to.”

“Have you not?” Timmy shakes his head. “Come on, we’ve been here what?” He turns to Armie, “Fifteen minutes? And some fucking weirdo’s already put my hand on his dick— it’s not that hard to get some action.”

“Jesus Christ, Timmy.” Nick shakes his head.

“Yeah, I hope you don’t mean Armie.” Will adds.

Armie shakes his head.

“No, Armie was off... talking to someone...” Timmy trails off, trying to remember her name. “Elizabeth.” He smiles. “That was it. Some Elizabeth, all like ‘oh, I’ll just be a minute’, and then fucking leaves me stuck with some absolute weirdo, like yeah, thanks Armie.”

Armie rolls his eyes. “You get jealous too easily.” He grins, watching Timmy get embarrassed. “Oh, fuck off, Armie.” Timmy shakes his head.

“Yeah,” Nick nods, “You would think that in a ‘relationship’ based on not ‘properly dating’ and not being ‘exclusive’... jealousy wouldn’t be an issue.”

“Oh, Nick.” Timmy says. “I’m not saying he can’t fuck anybody else, I’m just saying don’t abandon me with some weirdo, while you talk to fucking _Elizabeth.”_

Armie laughs at him. “You know how you sound?” He asks him.“How?” Timmy sighs, playing along. “Jealous.” Armie tells him, pulling him closer.

“You know, you two should just cut the bullshit and start dating.” Tyler says, testing the waters. Timmy flushes red, and doesn’t dare to look at Armie. Those words are in his head again — _’It goes both ways’._

“I don’t date.” Timmy says suddenly, getting all defensive and relaxing back into his ego. “Yeah?” Will challenges him. “And why’s that?” Timmy looks down, a little nervous, a little embarrassed.“It’s not your business.” Armie speaks for him.

“But you know?” Nick asks, raising his eyebrows.“Yeah.” Armie says. “We do have conversations; you know? It isn’t just sex all the time.”

Timmy grins a little. “He knows.” He says, looking up at Armie. He’s scared that for a moment, there’s love in his eyes, and the whole world as he knows it, emptied into this attic, can clearly see it.

Armie rolls his eyes. “I’m gonna go piss.” He says, and gets up to go downstairs.

Timmy’s left alone to face three sets of eyes all fixed directly on him. The attic is silent until the door closes and Armie starts down the stairs, but the very moment he does, the moment erupts with noise.

“Shut up.” Nick raises his voice, and gets the others to quieten down. Timmy flushes, a little grateful, a little regretful to find clarity in the chaos.

“He loves you.” Nick says, meeting Timmy’s eyes. “And what’s even more impossible is that you love him. And the whole world can see that, then why can’t you?”

Timmy looks down, suddenly wants Armie to come back more than anything. “I’m...” He shakes his head. “It’s not. It’s not like that.”

“I’m pretty sure it is.” Will says, narrowing his eyes.

“Well, you’re not fucking—” Timmy chokes out a sigh. “I’m...” He starts to make an excuse, but just gets to his feet and dashes downstairs.

He lingers outside the bathroom door, battling anxieties, forever trying to catch his breath, but finding thatit always escapes him. Once the door opens, he gives Armie no warning before pulling him back downstairs into the claustrophobic mob of a party.

“Timmy?” Armie’s voice is in his ear, having to shout to be heard. Timmy’s pretending he can’t make it out for the noise, setting his eyes on the swarm of people. ‘I could have anyone here’, he tells himself.

Timmy pulls them into the mess of people, stopping only to reach inside Armie’s jacket for the bottle of wine. He takes a swig, before offering it up to Armie. Armie is hesitant, dubious, forever trying to figure him out, but takes it nonetheless, even if only just to make Timmy feel like they’re on the same page.

“Timmy.” Armie says louder this time, holding his gaze, as he passes the bottle back to him. “What’s wrong?”

Timmy shakes his head like he doesn’t understand, and scans their immediate vicinity. He thinks there’s a guy he could quite like, tall with dark hair — a guy who could quite like him if Timmy wanted him to.

Armie catches him staring, and slots himself back into Timmy’s space, almost shouting directly into his ear, so this time there’s no chance for Timmy to pretend like he can’t hear him.

“What’s going on?” He asks, slotting an arm around Timmy’s waist, that makes Timmy question his motives; he wonders what he’ll say, if this guy ever turns and starts looking.

Timmy pushes the truth to the back of his mind, and tries to manufacture an easygoing, palatable kind of lie. He tells himself that he’s doing them both a favor.

“Him.” He says, pointing to the guy. “I wanna get with him.” “I—“ Armie stammers. “Okay, I— upstairs—“

“You’re not helping with your arm around my waist like we’re getting fucking married, Armie.” Timmy sighs and pulls away from his grasp.

He catches Armie’s eyes for a moment, and it almost kills him. He needs to even this out. He needs to make this better. Balance, he tells himself.

He needs balance.

“That was what we said, wasn’t it?” Timmy spins this on his head, like he’s trying to make Armie feel guilty. “Fucking other people as well.”

Armie lets out a sigh — it comes as a series of indistinguishable sounds, and Timmy just doesn’t dare to examine the wounds he’s made. He thinks back to upstairs to Will and Nick, to the truth slathered all over them. _It goes both ways. It goes both ways._ He can’t love him. He won’t love him. He won’t let himself. And, yet.

Armie rolls his eyes, pulling Timmy close enough to whisper into the crook of his neck. “I really thought you were getting dressed up like this for me.” He almost laughs. “I should have known.”

His words come like a sting that leave Timmy reeling, frozen into place watching as Armie cuts through the crowds and disappears amidst the living, breathing mess of people. Timmy’s stranded, he realizes then, trying to grasp for breath, drunk, but not really drunk enough.

He looks to the dark haired guy again, desperate to catch his gaze, because if this is going to go down in flames, at least he wants to make a bonfire out of it.

This time, the guy meets his eyes

“Hey.” He says, breaking away from his mates, getting into Timmy’s space. Filling a place, filling a void, Timmy thinks suddenly of Armie, and tries to find his face.

“Hey.” Timmy returns, almost absent-mindedly. “I’m—“

“Timmy.” The guy finishes for him, with a grin. Timmy turns back to the moment, and lets him take his hands and put them up on his body.

“I’m Ben.” He says, pressing his lips to Timmy’s neck. “Do you wanna go upstairs?”

Timmy tries to focus to bury himself in thought, to bury himself in hands and mouths. He needs this, he tells himself, but struggles to mean it. He’s searching again, eyes up through the crowd, forever trying to make Armie out. He wants to give him an apology; he wants to make this all easy, though they’ve both already messed it up between them. He just wishes love had never come into it, better yet he wishes love had never been so tarnished for him, he wishes none of it had to be like this, but this is the way it is.

This is the way it is, looking miserable at a party, while a stranger kisses his neck, drunk but not drunk enough yet. He’s still wearing Armie’s jacket, the wine’s still in the pocket, but he doesn’t want to risk the danger of getting any more intoxicated. He’s already wondering where Armie is now and who he’s thinking of.

“Are you gonna let me fuck you?” The stranger, Ben, or whatever his name was, purrs into his neck.

Timmy remembers it all at once. A prize, a trophy, a game, spoilt like fruit, blurred like the ink in a photograph, false memories, false smiles on our faces. All Armie ever wanted was a bit of honesty, a bit of truth, and Timmy remembers now — he still has that polaroid of Armie sitting at home waiting for him to get back to.

“Yeah.” Timmy says, defeated, empty, open. He thinks he just wants someone to hold him; he thinks he just wants someone to put him somewhere and let him live; he thinks he just needs to get high, because sober feels like a terrible curse to live with.

This stranger gets his arm in around Timmy’s waist where Armie’s arm used to be. _’Like we’re getting fucking married, Armie.’_ The past is in his head again, clearer than in photographs, in spiteful words, in the pieces of love that were given to him, in the pieces of love that he let himself take. Timmy sucks in fresh oxygen and comes up with only weed smell and sweat; this is a party, after all, he reminds himself. He came here looking for trouble — he meets the stranger’s eyes — and trouble is what he’ll get.

He tries the doors one by one, until they find a room that’s empty. Timmy remembers Armie, hesitant, shielding his eyes, kind, not just at the best of times, but kind all of the time. And Armie, abandoned downstairs, pushed into a crowd of people, only to be pushed away again. Timmy wants to go and find Armie again and give him the world as he knows it. He thinks that’s the kind of apology this warrants.

But Ben gets this hungry look in his eyes when he closes the door behind them, and Timmy knows that it’s too late now.

He takes Timmy’s jacket off. He takes Armie’s jacket off. He takes Armie’s jacket off Timmy. He laughs at the bottle in the pocket. He doesn’t understand. He doesn’t know what any of this means. He tells Timmy to keep the dress on, as Timmy had expected he would. Keep the dress on. Keep looking pretty. If I don’t have to look at the truth, then for sure, it doesn’t exist, does it?

Timmy breathes in deep, and lets go of everything. Maybe he falls back onto the bed. Maybe he was pushed. Either way, it’s all mattress and down from here. Ceiling, and the soft glow of the moon light, creeping in through the window. The boy above him has only ever just been a silhouette, and Timmy sees it then. The fear in his eyes, the anxiety. A boy just like him, just like the rest of them, lost and lonely in this sickening swarm of a world, of a party, trying to figure himself out, but falling at every hurdle.

This stranger spreads Timmy’s thighs wide like his body is a lock that he’s trying to break open, and Timmy lets him. Timmy lets him. He stares up at the ceiling. Looks towards the open window. Someone’s setting off fireworks in the garden, he thinks. He laughs to himself — he’s certain that the police are going to come eventually. It’s just a matter of time. And this stranger gets his hands between Timmy’s thighs.

Fireworks in the fucking garden, Timmy laughs to himself, thinking of Armie, thinking of the way he smiles with his eyes. He doesn’t want to be here; he realizes — on his back in a stranger’s house, on a stranger’s bed, with a stranger inside of him.

He wants to go home, he tells the lonely moon. But he doesn’t know where Armie is now, or if he’s even going to forgive him, or fuck that, if he’s even angry at all. What Timmy thinks would be worse, if when it came down to it, this was really all just nothing, and he feels like he wants to throw up in his mouth.

And then this stranger starts fucking him. He starts fucking him like he’s never fucked a guy before, and he doesn’t quite know what he’s doing or where to put his hands, but Timmy reminds himself that he’s used to it, and lets him dig his fingers into Timmy’s hips until his body bruises.

Timmy’s watching the night sky, watching the fireworks, watching the streets on the horizon for signs of blue light, for signs of rescue, for signs of arrest, for signs of order and jurisdiction, in this house of malevolent chaos, lit up like a portal to hell on the street. He thinks of Armie again, and if he’s left yet, or is already leaving. Timmy supposes that if he’s smart, he should be.

And then this stranger comes, and starts scratching his nails down Timmy’s thighs, like he’s losing control of everything, and Timmy just lets himself lie there, mindlessly existing. He wants to get up and find Armie, he thinks, after this is over, after this is finished. He wants to say sorry; he wants to tell him how terrible it all really is; he wants to give him all his cigarettes; he wants to give him everything.

Timmy doesn’t notice how the stranger takes one more look at him and then leaves. He’s alone again then, having to get himself off, for the sake of convenience, rather than enjoyment, in a dingy bedroom at a house party. The fireworks have stopped, and he wonders if they were ever even really there at all. He tastes metal on his tongue, like he’s bleeding, like he’s dying out from the inside. He tugs at himself with his fist and tries to let go of everything.

He stumbles into the bathroom and locks himself in, trying to clean up. He remembers this all a thousand times before, it’s just with Armie, with whatever the fuck they are, they were doing, he’d gotten himself placated, used to this new normal. He almost laughs at the thought, as he readjusts his hair in the mirror, and pulls Armie’s jacket back up around his shoulders.

He stumbles back downstairs and the party shows no sign of breaking up. Better yet, he has no clue whether Armie is even still here anymore. He sucks in a breath, and knows nevertheless that he has to find him, even just to say sorry, always just to make this right. Though he’s not sure that there’s much right to make of this anymore.

He stands at the foot of the stairs looking hopeless for a little while, until a few familiar faces brush past him.

“Timmy, hey—“ It’s Will that stops, taking him in full, before checking the vicinity, as if searching for Armie.

“Where’s Armie?” But it’s Nick that asks the question. “I don’t know.” Timmy says, slumped back against the wall. “Are you okay?” Will asks, looking to Nick. Timmy shrugs. “I guess.” “We were gonna go back and just chill at NIck's,” Will continues, “You can come, if you want, if you need to.” Timmy shakes his head. “I need to find Armie.”

Nick says something to Will that Timmy can’t quite make out, before hurrying Will and a small group of people Timmy doesn’t really know along, and joining Timmy by the foot of the stairs.

“What happened?” He asks, his voice soft, showing Timmy the sort of kindness he never thought he’d get, let alone deserve.

Timmy shakes his head. “I don’t know.”

Nick smiles. “I think I do.” He shakes his head. “You love him. And he loves you. And you’re scared.”

Timmy laughs. “And everything’s fucked now, so it’s not like it matters.”

“It does.” Nick assures him.

Timmy shakes his head.

“I saw you once.” He continues. “The other week, out on your own. You were with this girl for a bit, but...”

Timmy shakes his head. “Saoirse. She was just... saying hi.”

“Mm.” Nick nods. “You’re not good when you’re on your own. You think you are, just because that’s what you’re used to, but that doesn’t mean it’s for the best.”

Timmy sighs.

“Go find Armie and tell him you love him.” Nick says, and gets up to go. “And we’re still gonna be at mine if you need us, or you need somewhere to go, okay? We’re not just Armie’s friends now, we’re yours too. Funnily enough.”

Timmy smiles.“Thanks.” He says, a little half-heartedly, and watches Nick leave.

He’s not so sure on the telling Armie he loves him part, at least not like this, at least not so suddenly, but he’s certain he has to find him, and that he has to say something. Something like I’m sorry.

Timmy tugs in a breath, and fights back through the crowds of people, forever looking for a familiar face. He begins to think that Armie must have gone, must have already left, but that only makes him feel all the more guilty. Fuck, he thinks — how is he ever going to be able to fix this?

Until he sees him.

Until he sees him and the world whites out, not into static, but everything clear cut and crisp, black and white, no grey area, no in-between, but Armie, right by the patio doors, with a drink in hand. Timmy’s desperate to make eye contact, just to look at him, and say a thousand words in the blink of an eye, that is until he really looks, and the world begins to break down.

There’s that girl again. The Elizabeth he knew from before. And he’s smiling at her in a way that makes Timmy want to tear his heart out of his chest, and fuck. The music drowns out; he can’t make out individual sounds from the static, he can’t make out sense from the madness. All he knows, and all he sees, is that girl, and Armie leaning down to kiss her.

If his heart has always been a ticking time bomb, this is when it went off. Fuck. And there’s shouting, not like party shouting, but really shouting, and Armie turning, turning to look at the source of the noise, looking in Timmy’s direction, and Timmy turning too, but not looking fast, not really looking at all.

There’s a fight. There’s a fight that breaks out, and Timmy calls it as easy an excuse as any to slip out unnoticed through the crowds. If Armie wants to follow him, then he’ll let Armie follow him; he doesn’t think much, he doesn’t care much, he just knows that he needs to go. He needs to get out, Jesus Christ, he needs to fucking breathe.

And it feels like he almost collapses on the asphalt, but there’s no respite, when the people start flooding out into the street. He thinks that everyone knows, that in that moment, everything’s over. And it’s always been a matter of time until the blue lights started flooding the horizon, but now, now they’re really coming.

Timmy catches his breath long enough only to start running. He doesn’t know this town; he doesn’t know the way the streets wind and intersect, but he remembers Nick’s house and Nick’s street, and he thinks in enough time, because fuck it suddenly feels like, he has all the time in the world, he’ll find it.

He has to find it. And meanwhile, he’ll just have to think of something to say. An easy lie, a bitter excuse, or does he just come out with it. Does he tell Armie’s friends the truth? What he saw, and what it meant? And how, fuck, fuck, fuck. _It goes both ways. It goes both ways._ Timmy almost chokes on his own thoughts.

It goes both ways. Two fucking strangers, two ways to pull and tear at a heart. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

He feels fucking pathetic, running through the streets of the town he doesn’t even know in a dress he wore to impress a guy who’s currently kissing a girl, in his jacket too. Fuck, he thinks, he at least still has some wine left in the bottle, and slumps down in an alleyway and puts the bottle to his lips. He looks out at the moon, and thinks fuck, how did it all end up like this?

Fuck. He turns his head out to the main road either end of the alleyway, and listens to the sounds of the town, waking up to quieten down again. He can hear them now — sirens, law, order, rules and boundaries. The chaos is over, the chaos has come to an end. And he thinks fuck, fuck, whatever comes of Armie, comes of Armie, and he almost laughs to himself about it.

He was mad, he was stupid, to think it would ever be any other way. He looks up to the stars and thinks of countryside, of open fields, of the back of Armie’s car — the first time it really felt intimate. He thinks about Armie’s house, Armie’s bed, waking up there, going to sleep and feeling every kind of comfortable. Armie’s mom, dinner, kissing in the rain, sharing that shower. He thinks about the time Armie took him home because his mind went all scattered and erratic; he thinks about all the mistakes he’s made, all the boys he’s let touch him, and then Armie, Armie kisses one girl and it’s over.

He tells himself that it’s not the fact he kissed her, but the way he kissed her. He says that like he can mean it, because he’s sure, he’s never truly wanted to touch another guy since he met him. It’s all just been for show. It’s always just been about appearances, more lies, more ways to hide from each other, and no ‘I love you’, sure it goes both ways, but what even is ‘it’ anymore? Because from Timmy’s eyes, he’s not sure that it means much of anything anymore.

He picks himself up and continues on through the streets to Nick’s house, sipping from the bottle as he walks, until he’s stumbling in the street. This is fucked, he tells himself, vaguely. But he supposes that fucked, is how he’s always asked for things to be.

He thinks himself a fucking mess when he stumbles down Nick’s driveway with a bottle in hand, Armie’s jacket falling down to his elbows, and his makeup smudged from crying, but _fuck,_ he supposes. This is how he is, and this is how it’s gonna be. He supposes Nick made him a promise, after all, after everything.

He rings the doorbell, and for the first time in his life, hopes that it’s Nick who he finds. Still, he doesn’t even know how he’s going to explain any of this. It’s too late and too far to get home now, but all he really wants to do is be alone and go to sleep.

He rings the doorbell again, and tries to focus properly, though all the colors are starting to blur into one. Maybe this is when he should stop drinking, maybe this is when the drinking’s only really started.

Nick answers the door, and stares Timmy down for a full minute, like he just doesn’t have the words.

Timmy shrugs out a smile and finishes the bottle of wine. “Hi.” He says.

“Fucking... Jesus Christ, Timmy.” Nick says, ushering him in. “What...” He frowns. “What happened? Did you...?”

“I found him.” Timmy laughs, putting the empty bottle of wine down on the chest of drawers by the door. He has to hold onto Nick to get his shoes off without falling over; there’s a part of him that wants to apologies profusely, but he’s just too far gone to hear it.

“I found him, yeah.” He tells Nick again, now barefoot, but still refusing to let go of his arm. “Kissing a girl. So yeah, telling him you love him plan? Didn’t exactly go into action. Thank you very much.”

“I thought...” Nick frowns. “I thought you two had a thing where you could get with other people?”

“Yeah, but fuck... Nick... I didn’t actually want to do that. I didn’t actually, oh my god, I’ve just been getting with guys for the sake of it, for proving some point that doesn’t even matter, and I... I fucking love him, Nick.” Timmy lets out a sigh.

“I know.” Nick tells him, hugging him quickly. “I know you do.”

“So fuck everything, basically.” Timmy laughs, rubbing his eyes and only smudging his make up further. “I... God... bathroom?”

Nick pulls away from him quickly and directs him towards the toilet. “Jesus Christ.” Timmy hears him say, as he locks the door shut.

“Fuck.” He tells his reflection. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.” But this is where he is now; this is where he’s ended up, and he even thinks that there’s someone out there who cares about him, the other side of the bathroom door.

“Fuck.” Timmy tells himself, and tries to wipe his smudged make up off. He doesn’t get his face completely clean; nothing can be truly clean anymore, but he looks a little less manic and deranged when he comes up to his reflection.

He takes a breath, before preparing himself a little way, and wandering back out of the bathroom.

He finds Nick lingering in the kitchen, with anxieties wrought into the lines of his face; he’s prepared a glass of water, and offers it out to Timmy when he walks in.

Timmy nods a vague kind of thanks, and downs it. “Everything’s fucked now.” He says, smiling a little.

“No,” Nick tells him, “It’s not. You’re just in a mess and drunk, and what you’re going to do is sleep it off and then we’ll sort it out in the morning.”

Timmy raises his eyebrows. “What? Sleep here?” “What?” Nick laughs. “Did you expect you were going to get kicked out and sent home like this?”

Timmy shrugs. “I can never tell.” He fills his glass back up with water. “I’ve given up on trying to read people. Especially after this.”

“The only reason Armie would have kissed her is because you made out like it was okay.” Nick assures him. “I know him, and I know he’d never purposefully do something like that to upset someone.”

Timmy makes a face. “It felt different. And I would have appreciated it if he’d told me first, so I didn’t go around frantically looking for him, just to find him sucking some random girl’s face.” He sighs. “Elizabeth.” He says her name again. “Who the fuck is Elizabeth?”

“Some girl he went to school with?” Ncik shrugs. “It’s not like... she’s nobody important, Timmy.” Timmy sighs, “Am I even anybody important?” “Yes.” Nick tells him. “Not even just to him. You’re important in your own right, for yourself.”

Timmy looks at him strangely. “Armie was right when he said you were just weirdly protective.” He lets out another sigh, and rummages through Armie’s jacket pocket for his cigarettes. “Fuck, I might as well smoke the whole lot.”

Nick makes a concerned face, but lets Timmy open the back door, and hover by it with a lighter and four remaining cigarettes.

“I never hated you, Timmy.” Nick tells him. Timmy wonders if right now he looks like he just needs random, vague reassurances. “I had just heard stories and I was worried that you were going to fuck Armie around or whatever.”

“Other way around.” Timmy sighs, “But close enough.”

There’s the sound of the living room door closing, and then Will and Tyler appearing in the kitchen, looking from Nick to Timmy and back again.

“What’s happened?” Will asks, looking to Timmy’s tear-stained face with concern. He looks around, “Where’s Armie?”

Timmy just fucking laughs. Nick offers him a sympathetic look.

“Well,” Timmy makes a face, “Armie is currently, probably, kissing that random Elizabeth, you know? From before? Yeah—“

“Start at the beginning.” Will tells him, sending a look to Nick that Timmy finds entirely unreadable.

“Well...” Timmy sighs. “How much beginning?” “The party?” Will clarifies. “Tell us everything that happened at the party.”

“Okay, so we got there and tried to find you, but we couldn’t ‘cause everything was too packed, but then Armie saw someone he knew, this fucking Elizabeth, so he was like ‘I’ll just go say hi to her’, and then I’m stranded at this party, not that I can’t handle myself, but this fucking... dickhead comes up to me and I have to tell him Armie is my boyfriend to get him to leave me alone, and that... that was the first time I ever said it like that, you know? And I was fucking scared of it, and then I’ve said it, and maybe it’s not that bad. But then I’ve got to find Armie, and he’s out on the patio with this Elizabeth, I mean fair enough, but she just... like leaves the moment I turn up, and I mean, then we actually find you, but then... this whole I love you bullshit... I just...” Timmy sighs.

“Maybe I had a mini breakdown, maybe it just tipped me over the edge. Everything’s just kept building up, and I was scared, so fucking scared, and I still am. To trust him. Fuck, can I ever trust him now? And we... we went back downstairs and... I picked this guy out and said I’m going to fuck him, and Armie was like okay, and then I did, and it was terrible, and just —“

“If you fucked somebody else why are you upset that he kissed someone?” Tyler asks, frowning.

“Because I didn’t want to fuck him, fuck anyone — I just had to, because my fucking... brain, my head, I was going to have a panic attack, if I didn’t make all of these thoughts go away, about commitment, about trusting him, about letting myself love him. I _had_ to fuck somebody else. And it was horrible, and boring. He was one of those guys who knows who I am and then thinks because of that he gets to decide how he treats me, so anyway, I was just laid there, staring out, while he was just fucking me, and I fucking thought... I thought it was fucked and weird, but then I realized it was... fuck that was normal, that’s always been my normal. Armie is the fucking exception, not the fucking rule.”  
  
Timmy starts crying again. “One of the first things he said to me was why do you let people treat you like that? And I told him that was how I liked it, because at first I believed that, but... that was never how I liked it, that was just how I thought it needed to be. That was the ‘safest’ way to do it, emotionally.”

“You need to talk to him.” Nick tells him. “Tomorrow morning. You need to tell him all of that.” Timmy shakes his head. “Will he even want to talk to me?” “Yes.” Will assures him. “He’s not gone and got married over night.” Nick lets out a sigh. “He kissed one girl.”

“And what if it went further? What if he’s fucked her? What if he’s fucking her right now?” Timmy buries his head in his hands. “And what am I supposed to do? What the fuck am I supposed to do about that?”

“Talk to him.” Nick says again.

“You agreed.” Will reminds him, “You agreed that you could fuck other people. He’s not doing this maliciously.”

Timmy shakes his head. “It wasn’t about the fact he kissed her, but the way he kissed her, because I fucking saw it.”

“What do you mean?” Nick frowns.

“He kissed her, like he really wanted to kiss her, like... when I fuck other guys, I’m never... never happy... it never compares, it’s just... it just happens.” Timmy trails off.

“Maybe that just happened too?” Tyler suggests.

“But he looked—“

“And I bet,” Nick interrupts him, “If Armie saw you with somebody else, even if you were having the most miserable time in the world, he’d see you like you were happy, because he’d get jealous. And Timmy, we don’t always see things the way they are, but sometimes we see them, the way we want to see them.”

“Why would I want to see him kissing some girl like he wants to fucking marry her?” Timmy snaps.

“Because you’re constantly anxious about trusting him, about trusting people like that... your subconscious wants to see him let you down, because that makes all your irrational thoughts make sense.” Nick explains.

“Only reason why he kissed her, Timmy, for fuck’s sake,” Will adds, “Is because you went and fucked some random guy. He’s jealous, Timmy. I know you want to be blind to it, but it goes both ways.”

Timmy’s stomach flips. “Don’t say that.” “Say what?” Will asks.“It goes both ways.” He grimaces. “Why?”

“That’s what his mom said.” Timmy sighs. “About me and him... and... love...” “Well, isn’t she right?” Tyler asks. Timmy makes a pained expression.“When did you meet his mom?” Will asks, looking a little left out the loop.

“Last week, week before, something like that.” Timmy sighs. “She was really nice to me. That’s what all of this mess is, Armie is the first guy who’s treated me like a human being, and here I am, fucking falling in love with him.”

“Timmy.” Nick says, handing Timmy kitchen towel to dry his eyes with. “You don’t have to beat yourself up about it. If you love him, you love him, and there’s no changing that.”

“But... fucking _Elizabeth.”_ Timmy bursts out.

“Literally,” Will sighs, “I don’t know who the fuck Elizabeth is, nobody knows who the fuck Elizabeth is. If she was somebody, we would know. To him, she’s nobody. She’s someone he vaguely knows who he can kiss because you made him jealous, and he’s drunk and stupid and stubborn and trying to make a point.”

“Yeah.” Nick agrees. “And what you’re going to do is talk to him tomorrow morning, and be honest about all of this, about everything, about how you feel, and I promise you, Timmy, it’s all going to work out.”

Timmy nods, letting out a sigh.

“I’d have a fucking word with him, though.” Tyler says to Nick, “For making Timmy cry.”

“Oh yeah, obviously.” Nick smiles. He looks to Timmy. “I’m not having this — you upsetting him, him upsetting you. Alright we want you to be happy together, but also there’s the band—“

Will meets Timmy’s gaze. “And we’re not having to find another singer.”

“What?” Timmy smirks. “‘Cause you’ve finally got a good one?”

“Yeah.” Nick says, rolling his eyes. “We’ll say something like that.”

Timmy smiles to himself, looking down. “I do love him.” He says finally, to everyone that can hear him.

“We know.” Nick says, smiling at him. He looks over to Will. “You two go upstairs, I’ll sort him out.”

“Are you two gonna sleep on the sofas?” Will asks.

“Yeah.” Nick says. “I want to keep an eye on him.”

Timmy flips a middle finger in his vague direction. “I don’t need keeping an eye on.”

“You do.” Nick tells him, “You’re drunk, erratically crying, and having just a little emotional breakdown.”

Timmy sighs. “Fine.” He waits until Will and Tyler are half-way upstairs before he says anything else.

“Thank you.” He says to Nick. “You could have just left me there. At that party.” Nick sighs. “And what would have happened then?” Timmy shrugs. “I don’t want to think about it. Nothing good, though, nothing good.”

Nick nods, finishing his glass of water, before leading Timmy into the living room. Timmy’s curled up on one of the sofas, with a blanket draped over him, looking out at the moonlit silhouettes between him and Nick. He knows Nick wants him to drift off easily to sleep, but he just can’t — his brain’s gotten stuck, not stuck necessarily in a bad way, but stuck, like everything’s made of static.

“I’m going to write a song about this.” He says. Nick lets out a sigh. “Yeah? Tomorrow morning. Go to sleep.”

Timmy smiles. “I’m gonna call it, ‘Armie you’re a fucking idiot’, no actually ‘I’m a fucking idiot’— ‘We’re both fucking idiots’.”

“Catchy.” Nick sighs.

“I’m gonna call it ‘I have serious underlying abandonment issues and that’s why I get jealous too easily and make stupid mistakes all the time’.”

“How about you just say that to him? The truth.” Nick suggests. “When you talk tomorrow.” “Mm.” Timmy sighs.

“And Timmy?” Nick says.

“Yeah?”

“Go to sleep.”


	10. X.

The skies are blush pink streaked with blue and Timmy’s plagued with the kind of euphoria that comes with sleeplessness. He’s wandered into Nick’s garden, with Armie’s jacket still with two unsmoked cigarettes left inside the pocket, and a borrowed pen and paper.

It’s technically morning now, and he’s determined to write this song. At least, if he gets it all out onto paper, then he’s got a way of getting the truth to Armie, even if it won’t all come out in conversation. He feels bad for what he’d said about about this Elizabeth last night; he’s sure she’s lovely, and that Armie kissing her wasn’t her fault.

He doesn’t really want to talk to Armie, he doesn’t really want to talk to anyone — at least not yet. He wants to be alone with his thoughts, but in somebody else’s house, that’s a particularly difficult thing to accomplish.

He still thinks it strange that Will and Nick, and he guesses by extension, Tyler too, are his friends now, and not just Armie’s. He supposes he should think it stranger that he’s not used to having male friends that he has no intention of sleeping with. He wonders if when he talks to Armie, he should say all of this, say everything.

He wants Armie to love him, he supposes, and from what the rest of the world reckons, it already looks like he doesn’t have a choice in it. He just wants everything to be easier. He just wishes he wasn’t ever broken, wasn’t ever scared. He wonders if in another world, they could have met on better terms, and he wouldn’t have to feel this lost and lonely.

He keeps writing until someone else wakes up.

Will tempts him back inside with coffee, and doesn’t even make him show him what he’s written, and Timmy throws the empty packet of cigarettes into the bin, and tries to think about what he’s going to say to Armie.

Nick and Tyler appear in the kitchen together a little while later, and Nick has another one of those non-verbal conversations with Will that Timmy, for the life of him can’t understand. Nick asks Timmy if he’s okay, and Timmy doesn’t bother to lie.

“I’m not sure.” He says, because it feels like the truth, and he wants to hold onto it. Nick nods, like he understands that. And then the phone rings. Nick gets pushed into answering it, on the basis that it’s his house, and therefore his phone, but he does so with excessive, dramatized reluctance. Even Timmy can’t help but crack a smile.

“Hello?” Nick says into the receiver, slouched against the wall, while Tyler uses the opportunity to steal some of his toast. Timmy tries to bite back a grin.

“What?” Nick frowns, suddenly standing up straight. “Hi, I didn’t—“ “Yeah.” Nick says. “I—“ “No, I didn’t mean—“ Nick lets out a sigh. “He’s fucking here.”

He looks to Timmy and offers up the phone. Timmy glances around with uncertainty, before getting up to accept it.

“H-Hi?” Timmy says, uncertain. “Fucking hell—“ It’s Armie. Timmy suddenly stands up straight. “I was trying to find you last night. You didn’t tell me you went to Nick’s.” Armie says. “I didn’t get chance to.” Timmy almost laughs at him.

“Yeah, well, the police came.” Armie continues.

“I heard them.” Timmy makes out a vague memory, from when he was drunkenly wandering the streets.

“I was worried you got arrested, Jesus Christ.” Armie sighs. Timmy rolls his eyes. “I’m okay.” “Yeah?” Armie asks. “Good.” “And what about you?” Timmy holds his breath. “Are you okay?”“Yeah...” Armie says. He stops for a moment. “Well, no actually, not really.” “Mm.” Timmy sighs. “Yeah? Me too.”

Armie laughs. “Can I come meet you?” “Yeah,” Timmy says, “I suppose.” “We need to talk, don’t we?” Armie asks. “Yeah.” Timmy confirms. “We do.”

“I’ll be like twenty minutes.” Armie says. “You’ve still got my jacket, haven’t you?” “Yeah, but I smoked all your cigarettes.” Timmy smirks. “Fair enough.” Armie sighs. “See you though.”

“Yeah.” Timmy smiles, voice growing soft. “See you.”He puts the phone down. Three sets of eyes look up at him expectantly. Timmy shrugs, and sits back down at the table. “He’s coming over in like twenty minutes.” “And you’re gonna talk?” Nick asks.

“Yeah,” Timmy rolls his eyes, “We’re gonna talk.”

Timmy still looks a mess, but he supposes at least he’s had some coffee and something to eat. He’s re-done his hair, but he’s still wearing no makeup, last night’s dress, and Armie’s jacket. He supposes, though, this is the time for him to look like shit, if there ever was one.

He sits out on the wall at the front of Nick’s garden, waiting for Armie to pull up; he doesn’t want to deal with messy conversation, and he certainly doesn’t want to be there when Nick starts telling Armie how much of last night he spent sobbing.

He feels strange, waiting without any cigarettes, and waiting like he’s really waiting for something to happen. He supposes that at least one good thing came of last night — everything stopped feeling inconsequential.

Armie pulls up after a few minutes, catching Timmy’s eyes only briefly, before looking back up at Nick’s house. Timmy turns for a moment, saying goodbye to everything he’d let himself feel last night, before getting into the passenger seat.

“Hey,” Armie says, voice soft and sleepy; Timmy can hear the hangover in his voice, and can’t stop himself from smiling.

“Gorgeous.” Armie says again, teasing, testing the waters.

Timmy narrows his eyes, shaking his head at Armie. He catches his reflection in the rear view mirror. “Hardly? I’m a mess right now.”

“What?” Armie frowns. “‘Cause you haven’t got any make up on?”

“Yeah, and ‘cause I’m wearing last night’s dress and your fucking jacket.” Timmy sighs.

“Dress looked good last night.” Armie grins, “And it still looks good now.”

Timmy rolls his eyes. “Do you want your jacket back now?” He asks.

Armie looks him over, like he’s really thinking for a moment. “No, you keep it.”

Timmy frowns.

“You look good in it.” Armie tells him, and starts to drive through the winding, early morning streets.

“We need to talk.” Timmy reminds him, for Nick’ sake if nothing else.

“I know.” Armie nods. “I’m taking us somewhere, I mean unless you were really keen on just sitting in my car outside Nick’s house...”

Timmy sighs. “I really did smoke all your cigarettes by the way.” He says, like he’s purposefully trying to make Armie angry with him; somehow something like that all seems easier said than done.

“I believed you.” Armie smiles. “Look in the glovebox, I brought you some more.”

Timmy frowns, leaning over to open the glovebox, and avoiding some of its more questionable contents, finds a fresh packet of cigarettes. He holds it up to the light.

“For me?” He frowns.“I’m stealing at least one, but yeah.” Armie says. “Call it a sorry present.”

Timmy smiles, slotting the cigarettes into the pocket of Armie’s jacket. “What are you apologizing for?”

“We’ll figure that out in a minute.” He says, leading them back out of the town, and into the countryside.

“Where are we going?” Timmy asks, reminding himself to try and sound agitated with him, but he fears that it isn’t going very well at all.

“This park.” Armie says, turning onto a side road leading them through the trees. “We used to go here when I was a kid.”

“Mm.” Timmy nods, looking out of the window, at the trees rolling past, horizon enrobed with fog, as if this little pocket of reality was their entire world.

Armie parks the car by the side of the road, and turns to Timmy in the passenger seat. “Come on,” He says, “Let’s walk.”

“What?” Timmy rolls his eyes. “Have you brought a picnic too?” Armie snorts, climbing out of the car. “Why? Would you have liked that?” “Nah.” Timmy shakes his head, slamming the car door. Armie rolls his eyes. “I feel too sick to eat.” “Hangover?” Armie asks, making a face of mock sympathy. Timmy holds his breath for a moment. “Nerves.”

Armie looks at him a little differently after that, and they walk down the road through the trees in silence. Timmy only sparks up conversation, once light ushers in through an opening to an area of greenery.

“Is that the park?” He asks; he can assume as much, but he just wants something to say to Armie, for the sake of saying it.

“Yeah.” Armie nods, and quickens his pace. “How much further do you want me to walk for?” Timmy groans, rolling his eyes.

Armie shakes his head. “Not far. There’s just this... hollowed out space between these two trees. From when I was a kid. I want to know if it’s still there.”

Timmy nods. “I never really went to places like this when I was a kid.” He admits.

“Why?” Armie asks, teasingly. “Where do rich kids go then?” Timmy rolls his eyes. “France, mostly. Bit of Italy too.” Armie snorts. “Furthest we went was Canada.” “And?” Timmy arches his eyebrows and pretends to act impressed. “That’s a whole other country.” “It was shit.” Armie tells him, evidently still bitter.

Timmy grins to himself as they walk through the park. It appears fairly desolate so early in the morning, and with a thick blanket of fog rolling out from the horizon, Timmy imagines that they won’t be troubled with much company.

“How far now?” Timmy asks him, as they turn towards a cluster of trees.

“Right there.” Armie points to two trees with trunks that seem almost fused into one.

“You’ve hyped this up massively now, so I’m prepared to be disappointed.” Timmy adds, teasingly.

Armie throws a vague middle finger at him, hurrying ahead to peak around the other side. “Yeah, it’s still...” He half-way calls out. “Wow.”

Timmy bites back a grin and quickens his pace to join him. He reminds himself somewhere, that this is the boy he’s meant to be angry with.

Timmy joins Armie around the back of the two trees to glimpse a small opening of bark that allows them to slip into an otherwise hollowed out space between the two trunks.

“Ladies first?” Armie asks, turning to Timmy.

Timmy has to restrain himself from punching him.

“You are still wearing last night’s dress.” Armie reminds him.

Timmy makes a face. “Yeah, and you brought me to a fucking forest, Armie, so chances are I’m not gonna be able to wear it again.”

“I’ll buy you a new one.” Armie says, like he’s really pushing his luck.

Timmy frowns at him, and climbs in between the two trees all the same. Armie follows close behind him. They pull themselves up to sit on adjacent ledges created where the bark had only half- way hollowed out and rotten away from the trees, and Armie stretches his legs across the width of hollow, resting his feet up onto the ledge where Timmy’s sitting.

Timmy rolls his eyes, and lets his legs dangle above the forest floor. “Give us a cigarette.” Armie says, and Timmy’s glad to have something to do with his hands.

He reaches into his jacket pocket and opens the fresh pack of cigarettes, offering one out to Armie, before putting one to his lips and lighting it himself. Armie, of course, has got his own lighter, in all of his jackets.

Timmy stares up at the gap between the two trees, where everything splits off into branches and the foggy morning light comes filtering in through. He takes a drag of his cigarette and tries to feel normal, feel at home with himself — he thinks that it doesn’t much help that they’re currently sat in a fucking tree.

“So last night?” Armie starts the conversation, sucking in a breath. “I’m sorry for getting stupid worried and pissed off that you’d gotten arrested or something, but I couldn’t find you, Timmy. I searched that whole house three times for you, fuck, I started panicking— you can’t just—“

“What?” Timmy frowns at him. “I can’t just choose to leave a party without asking your permission first? You’re not my fucking dad.”

“That’s not what I’m saying.” Armie sighs. “I mean, letting me know, because if we came here together, I’m expecting that we’re going back together, unless you let me know otherwise, which you should have done, so I didn’t have to worry about you.”

Timmy makes a face. “Nobody says you _have_ to worry, Armie.” “But I’m going to worry.” Armie snaps. “Because funnily enough, I care about you, Timmy.”

“Funny that.” Timmy sighs, “Didn’t seem that bothered about me when you were sucking the face off that... Elizabeth...”

Armie’s eyebrows shoot up his forehead. “Is that what you’re pissy about?” _“Yeah.”_ Timmy asserts, as if it were obvious.

“Timmy, if you’re allowed to pull me downstairs just to point at a guy and say I’m going to fuck him, right to my face, then I’m allowed to kiss a girl at a party.” Armie lets out a sigh.

“Yeah, well, I don’t fucking get off on it.” Timmy makes a face. “It just feels shitty.”

“Fucking hell,” Armie sighs, “I feel shitty too. I felt... fucking horrible when you’d pulled me downstairs just to tell me you were gonna fuck him, like you were proving a point, and what the fuck kind of point were you proving?”

Timmy shrugs. “You told me you got off on it.”

“Yeah, maybe when it all felt casual and fun, and not so spiteful and vindictive, like pulling me downstairs like you wanted to dance with me or fucking something like that, and then just immediately pointing out another guy—“

“There was nothing spiteful about it, I just thought that’s what you like.” Timmy frowns. “Oh yeah, being ignored,” Armie rolls his eyes, “I fucking love that. Well done, Timmy.” A minute of silence passes between them. “It was shit, by the way.” Timmy continues. “The sex.”

“Right.” Armie sighs.

“I was kind of just laying there...” Timmy trails off, “Looking at the moon, thinking about you a bit.”

Armie frowns. “What? While he was fucking you?”

“It wasn’t like he was fucking me, it was just like he was fucking my body, you know? But then also he was one of those guys who’s trying to ignore everything he doesn’t want to know about my body. He was one of those guys who knows my name, so he thinks he knows who I am, and he thinks he knows how he can treat me.”

“You’re still letting him, letting them, letting guys like that treat you like that.” Armie tells him.

“Yeah, ‘cause there’s so much I can do when I’m naked and alone with this guy twice the size of me.” Timmy sighs, rolling his eyes. “That’s what you don’t get, ‘cause you’re tall as shit.”

Armie nods, and really looks like he’s trying to listen.

“I don’t even _like_ fucking other guys.” Timmy says suddenly, before he can stop himself.

“Then why are you doing it?” Armie asks.

“Because you’re kissing and doing whatever the hell else with girls, and whoever the fuck else.” Timmy flounders.

“I kissed one girl.” Armie reminds him. “And I only kissed her because you went upstairs with that dickhead and I was drunk and jealous.”

“Jealous?” Timmy sits up suddenly.

“Yeah, Timmy, Christ, I have emotions.” Armie sighs.

“Did you only kiss her?” Timmy asks, frowning.

“Well...” Armie flushes.

“Oh, don’t tell me you fucked her, especially not after you’ve made this point about how you ‘just kissed one girl’.” Timmy rolls his eyes. “Fuck off, Armie.”

“I ate her out.” Armie says. “That’s it.” Timmy rolls his eyes again. “What and she didn’t get you off?”

“Well, by that time, the police had come, so getting off wasn’t exactly my top priority.” Armie sighs.

Timmy thinks for a moment. “Do girls like that? Eating them out?” “Yeah, Timmy.” Armie rolls his eyes. “Funnily enough, girls like that.” “Not just some weirdo thing you’re into then?” Timmy arches his eyebrows. “Oh, I’m definitely into it.” Armie says. “Uhh.” Timmy flushes. “What?” Armie sighs. “I like eating girls out. What’s wrong with that?” “Well, I’m sorry I don’t have a pussy, Armie.” Timmy snaps. Armie snorts, looking him over. “Has anyone ever eaten you out?” He asks.

There’s a breath of silence.

Timmy turns. “What? Uh...? _There?”_ He turns bright pink. “No?”

Armie smirks. “I didn’t know sex could still make you blush.”

Timmy rolls his eyes. “Jesus Christ, Armie, do people really do that... _there?”_

“Yeah.” Armie stubs out his cigarette. “Why? Do you want me to do it to you?”

Timmy freezes, turned lobster pink; there’s that voice in his head again, reminding him that Armie is someone he’s supposed to be angry with.

“We could go back to the car.” Armie says. “There’s no one about.”

Timmy blinks at him. “You _want_ to do that? To me? Like you really...” Timmy trails off, going pink again.

“You want it too.” Armie smirks. “That’s not hard to tell.”

“No, Armie, I don’t want my fucking asshole licked.” Timmy frowns, pulling his legs up to the ledge.

Armie snorts. “Then why are you so bothered about it? I like that. I like that I’ve found something that makes you fucking tick.”

“I’m not blushing.” Timmy insists, stubbing out his cigarette.

“You are.” Armie tells him. “You can admit it. There’s no one around. There’s no one who’ll know.”

“It’s just strange.” Timmy says, covering his face. “Like with girls, yeah, maybe, but... I’m not just letting you treat me like a replacement for a fucking girl, Armie.”

“You know it’s never been about that with me.” Armie says, getting to his feet. “And there’s nothing fucking feminine about your asshole, I can tell you that for sure.”

“Oh, fuck off, Armie.” Timmy says, and watches as Armie climbs back out of the tree. “You can go back to the car all you like, but that doesn’t mean I’ll follow you.”

“Whatever.” Armie calls out, and continues back off through the park. Timmy sits alone for perhaps twenty seconds more, before getting up and hurrying after Armie.

Armie climbs into the driver’s seat and lights himself a cigarette. Timmy lingers by the drivers-side window, looking over at him expectantly, like he’s waiting, like he’s waiting for instructions.

Armie finally looks over to him. “Do you want it or not?” Timmy freezes. “Yes or no question.” Armie turns back away, taking a drag of his cigarette.

Timmy’s left wavering, uncertain, desperately hopeful that nobody’s going to drive down this road and see them. He supposes that the fog at least, will keep them safe for a while.

“Yes.” He says, meek but certain.

Armie looks up again, this time like he’s trying to bite back a smirk. “Then get on into the backseat.”

Timmy obliges without protest, climbing into the very center of the backseat, so he can stare straight into the rearview mirror, and make pleading eyes at Armie. He’s fluttery with nerves, with impatience; he can feel his fucking heartbeat in his throat, and Armie’s just sitting there, smoking away all the time in the world.

Armie reaches over into the glovebox, retrieves the lube, and throws it onto the backseat. “Loosen yourself up.”

Timmy raises his eyebrows. “Why do I have to do it?”

Armie holds up his cigarette.

“Right.” Timmy rolls his eyes. “And you chose to light that, remember.”

“I thought you were gonna say no.” Armie adds, a little too earnestly.

“Oh.” Timmy flushes, squeezing some lube out onto his fingers.

“Move left a bit.” Armie says. “So I can see properly.”

“You fucking freak.” Timmy shakes his head, but obliges anyway.

Armie bites back a smirk. Timmy wonders if Armie has finally got him exactly where he wants him, and exactly what can come from that.

“I thought you were gonna make a point about not being a girl.” Armie continues, meeting Timmy’s eyes in the rearview mirror, as he takes a long drag of his cigarette.

Timmy rolls his eyes, getting his fingers between his legs, just to give Armie something else to talk about.

“Yeah,” Armie lets out a sigh, “That’s nice.”

Timmy rolls his eyes. “Oh fuck off, Armie — that’s nice, really?”

“What am I meant to say?” Armie turns and faces him directly.

Timmy isn’t sure he knows. “Just not that.”

Armie grins, and stubs out his cigarette, to turn and face Timmy properly, leaning between the two front seats.

Timmy lets out a little whine as he adds another finger; Armie looks a little like he’s in heaven. “You look so good doing this.” Armie tells him. Timmy opens his eyes just long enough to roll them. “You do.” Armie lowers his voice, making sure Timmy knows that he means it.

“What?” Timmy’s eyes fall shut for a moment. “Prettier than the girls you like?” “What fucking girls do I like, Timmy?” Armie tears out a sigh. “Elizabeth.” Timmy says her name again, and adds another finger. “I don’t tell girls to get in the back seat of my car and spread their legs wide open to fucking finger themselves so I can sit and look at it.” Armie tells him. “Why not?” Timmy asks, a little breathless.

“‘Cause girls don’t want to do that shit.” Armie says, voice growing deeper. He meets Timmy’s eyes directly.

Timmy’s eyes flutter back open. “Tell me I’m prettier.”

“You’re fucking vain.” Armie tells him, and climbs back out of the driver’s seat. Timmy holds his breath, as he watches Armie take his time with moving from front to back seat, climbing into the back only to look Timmy over with a sense of smug disbelief.

“You’re fucking pretty as sin.” Armie tells him, and kisses him deep.

Timmy spreads his thighs wider, trying to mold his body around Armie’s. “I’m still pissed off with you.” He takes care to remind him.

“Okay.” Armie says, like he doesn’t at all believe him, and gets Timmy so he’s sat back against the passenger door, with his knees up, and legs spread across the seats.

“What do you mean? _Okay?”_ Timmy frowns. “I am.” He insists. “Take your fingers out.” Armie tells him, ignoring his question completely. Timmy obliges without thinking, letting out a breathless little sigh.

Armie smirks and gets between his thighs, spreading them wider, perhaps just for the little keening noises Timmy makes, like all he wants to do in the world is argue, but he can’t quite get the words out.

“Did she like it?” Timmy asks suddenly, just to take Armie by surprise.

“Funnily enough.” Armie makes a face. “Yeah.”

“Did you make it good for her?” Timmy asks, blowing his eyes wide and obscene.

“Yeah.” Armie grins, pinching the inside of Timmy’s thigh, like all he wants to do in the world is make him squirm.

Timmy lets out a whine. “Make it better for me.”

Armie smirks, and gets his face pressed between Timmy’s thighs. He starts slow, gentle, with just teasing, testing strokes of his tongue, like he’s trying to figure out just what Timmy likes and wants from him.

Timmy shudders, like he’s trying to climb up the car seat, and away from Armie’s touch.

Armie hooks one of Timmy’s thighs over his shoulders, and gets an arm around his hips to pull him closer.

“Be good.” He tells him, before putting his face back down there.

Timmy’s body starts to feel languid, when he lets Armie move his body and angle it to pull him into position. It feels like the fluttering of a heartbeat, the sweet, sick taste of adrenaline, a body wiped clean of sin just to sparkle with a sheen of sweat.

He wants Armie to know him like this. He wants Armie to know every part of his body like the back of his hand. And the thought drives him insane.

Armie pulls Timmy’s cheeks apart and pushes his tongue inside, and that’s when Timmy lets out a full body moan. Even worse, he can feel Armie grinning against him, like he can read his fucking thoughts.

“It’s nothing special.” Timmy tells him, bitter and trying to prove a point. Armie pulls back and draws his mouth down the inside of Timmy’s thighs. “Fuck.” Timmy whines, squirming like he’s more sensitive outside than in. Armie smirks. “It’s nothing special, is it?”

“Well not for you.” Timmy makes a face, playing flippant and unabashed. “Fucking do this with every girl you meet.”

“I’d have to work hard to find a girl that’s gonna let me put my tongue in her asshole.” Armie says, and presses his mouth to the very top of Timmy’s thigh, kissing and sucking like he wants it to bruise.

“Armie—“ Timmy chokes out. “Are you fucking—“

Armie pulls back to admire his handiwork. He reaches for Timmy’s hand to press Timmy’s own thumb into the bruise. Timmy’s eyes almost roll back in their sockets.

“Yeah?” Armie asks, looking too pleased with himself. He doesn’t wait for Timmy to respond and works on giving him another one.

 _“Armie.”_ Timmy squirms against his touch, trying to sit up properly. “If you wanted to put your tongue in my asshole, then put your tongue in my—“

“What I wanted to do was make you fucking squirm.” Armie says, sitting up enough to meet Timmy’s eyes. He presses his thumb into the second bruise; Timmy’s pulse flutters.

“Please.” Timmy says, suddenly. “I...” He stammers, looking down. “I liked it. I really liked it.” Armie bites back a smirk. “Please what? You have to use your words.”

Timmy sighs, going all blushy and embarrassed, but then he looks at Armie and thinks ‘fuck it, who am I to get embarrassed in front of him?’ It’s him, it’s Armie, and suddenly that really means something.

“Please... eat me out... there... I... liked it... I really...” Timmy trails off, watching Armie’s pupils dilate.

He grins. “I heard that moan.” He squeezes Timmy’s thigh tight. “I knew you were just talking shit about not liking it.”

Timmy sighs. “It’s a bit... embarrassing.”

“This is all such a first with you.” Armie smiles. “But I know, I just wanted to hear you ask for it. Either way, I was always gonna give it to you.”

Timmy moans again, as Armie gets tongue deep between his thighs, working his thighs open again, and letting Timmy’s body mold to fit his.

“More.” Timmy tells him, like there’s a coil inside of him slowly unwinding. He’s desperate for it.

Armie suddenly hears the pressure in his voice and pulls back immediately. “You think you could come just from this?”

 _“Armie.”_ Timmy whines, and tries to use his thighs to push Armie’s tongue back into place. “Yeah.” Armie smirks, and pushes back in harder, everything forceful strokes, faster, deeper, like he’s fucking him with his mouth, with his tongue.

Timmy closes his eyes and tries to move into the pressure, like he’s riding Armie’s face, though he’s not much in control of his motions, and it’s Armie’s firm hand on his hip that’s keeping him slipping from the backseat entirely.

“Armie.” Timmy says his name again, feeling something drop within him. He wants this. Suddenly, he wants this all more than he’d ever thought possible. It’s not just about Armie’s mouth and the skin on his thighs that’s going to bruise up, but about the fog and the trees beyond them too. It’s about what all of this means.

Armie reaches for Timmy’s hand and pulls it down between his thighs.

“What are you...” Timmy’s breathless, struggling, and trying to form sentences. “Ah— Armie...”

Armie slides two of Timmy’s fingers up inside of him and adds his tongue on top of them.

Timmy makes a noise like he’s melting.

“I’m not a girl.” He says again, perhaps just for the sake of saying it. “I can’t just come from your mouth inside me.”

Armie pulls back. “I know. That’s why you’re going to use your fingers. Finger yourself, Timmy.” He says, like he knows exactly how to deal with him.

Timmy whines. “Why can’t you just... fucking... touch me—“

“Finger yourself.” Armie says again, “Or I’m not going to put my tongue back there, and I’ll just sit and watch you desperately fuck yourself until you come.”

“Armie.” Timmy says his name again, but this time he’s not really sure what he means by it. He starts to move his fingers all the same.

“Good.” Armie tells him, and kisses the insides of Timmy’s thighs, before putting his tongue, and that slick, warm, pressure back right where Timmy needs it.

Within moments, Timmy’s built up like a coil, his whole body live and thrumming with pressure and need for release. Armie can feel it, as he gets his tongue in deeper, meeting the fast, desperate pace of Timmy’s fingers.

There’s this tightness, where Timmy’s fingers go slack, and his thighs move like they’re trying to push in together again, and Armie senses it just moments before, just long enough to grab Timmy’s wrist, and push his fingers in deeper, onto his prostate, right as he comes.

Armie keeps his mouth there until Timmy stops writhing, and then pulls out enough to untangle their bodies. Timmy’s stomach is painted white, with his dress still bunched up around his armpits.

“How was that?” Armie asks, reaching over into the glovebox for some tissues, while Timmy’s still focusing on catching his breath.

“Good?” He asks, narrowing his eyes down at Timmy. He offers him up a tissue, but when Timmy doesn’t seem capable of moving, Armie gives in and wipes the mess up himself.

Timmy looks down between Armie’s thighs. “Come in me.” He says, spreading his legs wider. “Timmy, Jesus Christ, I—“

“Please.” Timmy asks him, “I want it... I... it hasn’t ever been like... like this before. Fuck, I need it.”

Armie gives in, but with an urgency to his actions. Timmy supposes he looks especially breakable like this, all fragile, pliable limbs; he wonders if Armie likes him like that, or if he just likes the trust in it.

Armie gets himself slick and pushes right in between Timmy’s thighs. His eyes go wide, and Armie pushes him down so he’s lying against the backseat, a hand braced against the polyester, fucking in fast, fucking in hard, and spreads his body further, wide open for him.

He wants to be good. He wants this to be good. He wants Armie to want him, more than he wants anybody else. He feels kind of dizzy when the static starts to wear off, and everything is just endless pressure, but Armie bites down into his throat when he comes, and pulls back slowly.

Timmy supposes it’s his turn to look at Armie like he’s broken, but his own body’s still heavy and awkward. Instead, he struggles for the tissues, trying to clean up the mess between his thighs before it stains the backseat.

Armie shakes his head, and spreads out a few tissues, before lifting Timmy up and sitting him back down on them. “You’re the one who wanted me to come inside of you.”

“You’re the one who thought it was fucking hot.” Timmy tells him, teasing. Armie laughs. “Yeah, yeah I did.” Timmy flushes. “I liked that. Your mouth.” “You loved it.” Armie tells him, smirking.

“Yeah...” Timmy sighs. “I kind of loved it.”

“Good.” Armie says. “I like giving you what you need.”

“Armie.” Timmy says suddenly. “We should do it more.”

“Yeah?” Armie grins. “Maybe not in my car in a semi-public place, but—“

“Yeah. In a bed where there’s actually room, and I don’t get cramp in my fucking shoulders.” Timmy moans.

“Sorry, I didn’t realize you were such a princess.” Armie smirks, pulling his jeans back up.

“Armie...” Timmy sighs. His heart feels heavy in his chest, like it knows what it wants for once. “Can we stop fucking other people?” He asks.

Armie smiles. “Say it then. That you’re jealous.”

“Fuck, Armie, of course I’m fucking jealous.” Timmy rolls his eyes.

“And why are you jealous?” Armie teases.

“‘Cause...” Timmy stammers; he’s looking for the right words, but everything difficult comes to mind. “I want you.” He says.

“Okay then.” Armie says, holding his gaze. “No more other people.”

-

Timmy sits and watches the sunset from his bedroom window, he’s wearing Armie’s jacket, and smoking through Armie’s cigarettes. He’s got pen to paper occasionally, and a polaroid tacked to the wall beside him.

There’s that photograph of Armie, candid, honest, how everything should be. Timmy wonders what Armie has done with his, but he knows he doesn’t have the guts to ask him. He feels strange, like the words won’t quite flow through him properly. He’s trying to write about this, about everything, not just into songs, but into anything at all. He wants to make words, he wants to make history, of all their fragile little memories and ephemera.

He looks up at that photograph and wonders if he and when he’s going to have to take it down again. He wonders when Armie is next going to make him cry again — he calls that one an inevitable. He wonders what Nick is going to say to Armie about it; he wonders if he already has, and Armie is just good at hiding his bluff.

_‘No more other people.’_

Timmy writes that on the page, because it’s the only thing to think about. He supposes this means they’re _together_ together in every sense of the word, without ever actually saying it. Timmy feels strange, feels vulnerable, feels like he still has a world of things to say to Armie, but he just, for the life of him, can’t get them out.

He stubs a cigarette out into the ashtray and thinks.

It’s more than just little steps, more than just cutting corners, more than crying at parties, more than no more other people. He wants to do everything right, and wants to mean it properly. He supposes he wants Armie to be his boyfriend, as much as the word makes him cringe.

Timmy thinks he’d stopped believing in romance, in love, in an awful lot of things, before all of this. He sits there feeling strange for maybe thirty minutes more before he gets up and calls someone.

He only realizes how lonely he is when he stands by the phone, looking for people to talk to, and not people to call over and fuck. He reminds himself again, that there are no more other people, there’s no more making this ‘easier’ for himself, there’s just Armie, and being honest, and vulnerable, and trying his best.

And yet, he thinks, Armie won’t say it either. Boyfriend. Dating. Any of that. Timmy wonders if he even wants it, and tries to bury the thought in dial tones.

“Hi, who is this?” She sounds different, more put together over the phone, and Timmy figures we all do, when we want to make something of an impression out of ourselves. He supposes also, that he knows that more than most.

“Timmy.” He says. “Hi, Saoirse.”

“Oh.” She changes the tone of her voice; Timmy’s seen her broken, no lie she puts on could make much difference. “Hey.”

“Can I just... just talk to you a minute about something?” He asks, and feels like he’s pushing his luck.

“As long as it’s not about Ansel.” She says.

“It’s not about Ansel.” He promises her, and though he wants to ask further, he knows her enough to think better of it.

“Okay.”

“I met this... this guy... he’s called Armie, and... fuck, I don’t know. I think maybe I fucking love him, I think maybe we’re dating, but not really though. Like we’re dating in principle, but we haven’t really called it that, I don’t think we’ve really called it anything. And I’m just scared, you know, I don’t much want to admit that, but that’s what it is at the end of everything, I’m scared. I’m scared of... fucking it up, of losing this.”

He listens to silence for a moment following, caught up elsewhere in the static. “Does he love you?” She asks. “Do you think? Has he told you?”

Timmy’s heart stops at the prospect. “No, we don’t—“ He sighs. “It goes both ways. That’s what his mom said to him once, when she thought I couldn’t hear them.”

“So, he loves you?” She asks.

“Yeah...” Timmy supposes. “Yeah, he does.”

“And you love him?”

“Yeah.” Timmy sighs. “I can’t help it.”

“Then that’s everything you need.” She says, her voice a little softer that time around. “That’s everything the whole world can fucking dream of.”

“But we don’t talk— we don’t talk about it, he doesn’t know that I know he loves me, and... he doesn’t know... I love him...” Timmy trails off, face growing pale. “And he... fuck...”

“If he loves you,” Saoirse says, “Then talk to him, because if he loves you, then you’ve got no reason to be scared of saying anything.”

“But I am.” Timmy says, “Because it matters—“

“And you’re not used to it mattering.” She laughs. “I know what you mean, but talk to him, Timmy, before you lose him, don’t fucking let yourself lose him.”

Timmy tugs out a breath. The moon looks brighter tonight.

“Thanks.” He says, and puts the phone back on the hook.

He walks idle through an empty, moonlit house, and waltzes straight into a dream — one where he’s still writing songs about telling a boy he loves him, one where the words get stuck in his throat, and everything is a mess of turpentine and chaos. He tries to paint the world as he wants to see it, but he just can’t get the colors right.


	11. XI.

The dynamic is a little different, after everyone in the room has seen Timmy ugly crying, but Timmy finds that this band still gives him the spark, the drive, he needs to make sense of his thoughts, to make sense of his brain.

Armie had picked him up that afternoon, and they’d talked little in the car, so much so that Armie had opted to turn the radio on, and they’d started singing shittily along to pop songs. Timmy had tried not to think about what Saoirse had told him last night, over the phone, and decided that they’d talk later, when everything feels right, and Timmy has the guts to call it all easier.

There’s a sense of urgency in the room, Will’s converted garage, because it seems that after dealing with Timmy’s emotional outburst the other night, Will and Nick both seem confident with the idea that Timmy’s a permanent fixture in this band, almost as if they both like him more for it. Timmy doesn’t know how to figure that one out.

Will talks excitedly about this small, local festival they can get booked onto if they prove they’re at least sonically tolerable, and Armie gets really defensive about how ‘fucking good they are’, and Timmy just tries his best not to fall catastrophically in love with him, at least for the foreseeable.

Nick pulls Armie out into the house to help him carry something, and Timmy’s left alone with Will, who’s getting overly excited and throwing out ideas about a set list.

“We need more songs, though.” Will says, trying to talk animatedly and tune his guitar at the same time, which seems to be producing mixed results.

“I’ve been working on some more.” Timmy admits. He fixes his hair back, and stretches his fingers into a few chord shapes.

“Mm.” Will nods. “That’s good. Can we hear them?” Timmy sighs, blushing a little. “I wrote... a bit... a decent bit... about Armie.”

“We don’t mind.” Will assures him, “We’re used to... whatever is going on between the two of you, by now, and I suppose, when it used to be me and Sophie, it’s only fair.”

“Yeah, but, Armie doesn’t know that I’ve written about him, and I...” Timmy sighs. “I need to talk to him, about some stuff, some stuff that’s in these songs, you know?”

“Like what?” Will frowns.

Timmy shakes his head.

“No, come on, we’re not fucking messing up this opportunity for us as a band just because you two don’t have the guts to have a conversation.” Will draws out a sigh.

“We talked a bit after the party, and the... crying...” Timmy sighs. “There’s just more I need to say. After I’ve thought about it. I talked to my friend about it, and it’s...” He cups his head in his hands.

“It’s difficult because it really matters.”

“And because this band needs both of you.” Will reminds him. “Don’t get cocky about it, but you’re the best singer we’ve had. And we’ve had... more than we should have.”

“Can’t have had very good singers then.” Timmy says, grinning a little.

Will sighs. “You talk to him, and we’ll work out these songs, because if we get booked for this, it’s gonna be good for us, you know—“

“Yeah.” Timmy rolls his eyes. “I know.”

“Good.” Will smiles, looking up over his shoulder. “Go and find them, in case they’ve started bickering or something.”

Timmy grins, putting his guitar down and making his way into the house. He takes the garage door into the kitchen, and vaguely remembers sobbing his eyes out here just a few nights ago. He doesn’t get long to ponder upon and treasure the memory, though, as he catches the sound of conversation from outside.

He traipses through the backdoor, and catches Armie and Nick stood out on the patio. Nick looks exhausted, Armie is two thirds of the way through a cigarette.

“Hey.” He says, a little sheepishly — he almost feels like he’s interrupting something. “Will told me to come find you two.”

Armie just looks at him and sighs. “You never told me you were crying.” Timmy flushes and looks to Nick accusingly. “I told you I was going to talk to him about it.” Nick holds up his hands. “Yeah, and you could have picked a better time to do it.” Timmy sighs.

“Fucking hell.” Armie takes another drag of his cigarette. “Well, now I feel like a fucking _asshole.”_

“Armie.” Timmy sighs. He shakes his head. “Look... we’ll talk about it later, after... there’s something I wanted to talk to you about anyway.”

Armie raises his eyebrows. “And I’m meant to just calm down and stop thinking about it for an hour or two so we can play some songs and decide, ‘oh yeah, that’ll get us booked for some random fucking festival’.”

“Armie—“ Nick tries, but quickly gives up. “Why are you even that...” Timmy trails off. “Why are you so upset about it?”

Nick looks between the two of them. “I’ll give you a minute” And makes a move to head back inside.

“No,” Timmy says, “You brought this up, so you’re not getting out of it.” Nick sighs and stays put. “Why are you so upset about this?” Timmy folds his arms across his chest.

Armie sighs, “Because fuck, Timmy, the last thing I want to do in the world is make you cry, Jesus Christ.”

“It’s okay.” Timmy assures him. “We’ll talk about it later, and properly I mean, not like... last time... but have a proper conversation that starts with conversation and ends with conversation and gets somewhere, okay?”

Armie tugs in a breath. “Yeah, okay. Fucking hell.”

“‘Cause Will really cares about this festival thing, and so,” Timmy grabs Armie’s hand, “What we’re all going to do is get our shit together and bash out some songs for a couple of hours. And then, what we’re going to do is go for a drive and talk, and get all this sorted. Okay?”

“Fine.” Armie sighs, offering Timmy the end of his cigarette.

Timmy takes it, and looks over to Nick, though he thinks he might as well not have bothered, because his expression is entirely unreadable. He gives the cigarette butt back to Armie to deal with, and heads off back into the garage.

“Hold onto him. Don’t fuck this up,” Nick says, unaware that Timmy’s still in earshot, “Because I don’t know what we’re going to do without someone who knows how to talk sense into you when you’re in a mood.”

Armie sighs, and starts to say something that Timmy desperately wants to listen into, but the backdoor slams loudly behind them, obscuring the conversation.

* * *

“You were distracted.” Armie tells him. They’re sat in his car, smoking the way through the last of their cigarettes before they start going anywhere. Though really, Timmy knows that it was all just an excuse to get some alone time.

“Yeah...” Timmy rolls his eyes, “It’s almost like I was busy thinking about you.”

Armie snorts. “We’re gonna make Will hate us.”

“Yeah.” Timmy sighs, biting his lip.

Armie laughs. “Where do you want to go?” He puts one hand on the wheel.

Timmy shrugs. “Somewhere, anywhere, I don’t know...” He looks out of the window and into the dimly lit evening. “Just somewhere to talk.”

“Do you wanna get something to eat?” Armie asks.

Timmy’s eyebrows shoot up. “You are _not_ taking me on that kind of date— I—“

Armie snorts. “I was hardly talking fancy fucking restaurant, but sure, if you want—“

“Armie.” Timmy draws in a breath. “No.”

“God, can you imagine that?” Armie laughs to himself, shaking his head. “Anyway, that wasn’t what I was on about.”

Timmy sits there, red-faced and sullen.

“What did you mean then?” He asks, curled up and stubborn, desperate to see the end of his cigarette.

“ I don’t know, like... burgers or something.” Armie smiles. “And we could get some beer, or some weed, and... yeah, I know somewhere actually.”

“One,” Timmy says, sitting up properly, “I don’t like beer. Two, this sounds like the shittiest date you’ve ever thought of.”

Armie shrugs. “You’re the one saying it’s a date, I thought we were just meant to be having a conversation.”

“You’re the one like ‘oh, let’s have dinner’—“

“It’s late.” Armie protests. “I’m hungry—“

“Fuck’s sake.” Timmy sighs.

“Actually, check if there’s weed in the glovebox.” Armie says, putting out his cigarette, and starting the engine.

“Oh yeah, Armie, ‘cause that isn’t the first place the police are gonna look if you get pulled over.” Timmy rolls his eyes, and rummages through the mess of various nefarious possessions until he finds a small bag of weed sat inside a porn magazine.

“I won’t get pulled over.” Armie says, with unsettling confidence.

Timmy sighs, and shoves the weed back deep into the glovebox. “I’m not letting you get high until we’ve actually had a proper conversation, you know?”

“Yeah.” Armie nods, driving out through the residential streets and into the busier center of town. “But I wanna eat something first.”

“I’m not hungry.” Timmy shrugs.

“You are, and you’re eating.” Armie tells him, pulling up the the side of the road.

The twilight’s spilled everywhere, merging with the fluorescent lights twisted around the fronts of bars and open-late shops, creating a hazy, messy watercolor of a night-time street. Timmy rests his head against the window and watches a couple of drunk girls stumble manically across the road.

“I’m gonna get fries, if you want anything else...” Armie tells off, following Timmy’s gaze. “You alright?”

“Yeah...” Timmy says, coming back down to reality. “Just... everything feels so different, but so familiar.” He looks over at Armie.

“Talk about it later, with me?” Armie asks, leaning over and kissing his cheek. “Yeah?” “Yeah.” Timmy says, and lets his head fall limply back against the window. “I’ll be back in like five minutes— Unless you wanna come—“

“Nah.” Timmy shakes his head. He reaches into his jacket pocket instead. “Actually, Armie, give us a cigarette.”

Armie smiles, and throws him the whole packet instead. Timmy catches it and opens it up. “Buy more smokes as well, there’s like six left.”

Armie gets up and stands by the car door to look over the top of the car and over to the other side of the street.

Timmy turns to look out of the passenger side window, trying to distinguish the mess of shops and bars at the other side of the street. He spots a convenience store with a garishly neon sign, at the same time that Armie does.

“Yeah.” Armie says, drumming the roof of the car with his fingertips. “See you in a minute.” He slams the car door, and heads into the store.

Timmy watches him go, but soon turns to watch the world from the front window, measuring reality in drunk girls stumbling across the street, in how much he’ll have left of this cigarette when Armie returns, of what he’ll say to him later, and all that’s going to come from this.

Armie returns with equally far more cigarettes and far more food than they need between the two of them. He puts the paper bag down onto the backseat, and throws the cigarettes vaguely in Timmy’s direction.

“How much do I owe you?” Timmy asks, stuffing a couple of packets of cigarettes into his jacket pockets, and shoving the rest into the glovebox for Armie to deal with later.

“Nothing.” Armie says, starting the engine. “If it’s a date, then I’m paying.”

Timmy rolls his eyes. “Stop trying to be ‘the man’ in this...” He trails off, the word ‘relationship’ on the tip of his tongue. “Stop trying to be ‘the man’ in this.” He says again, gesturing between the two of them.

Armie shakes his head. “I’m not. I just think it’s only fair, considering I did make you cry.” He sighs, pulling down through the town center until the streets become quiet and sleepy again, streets intercepted only by the occasional car driving home.

“It’s nothing special.” Timmy tells him, like he’s desperately trying to make a point. “There’s plenty of men in the world who have made me cry.”

Armie sighs. “That really doesn’t make me feel any better.”

Timmy shrugs.

“Just let me pay for this, and don’t get pissy about it, okay?” Armie says, “And we’ll call that me trying to make it up to you.”

Timmy nods slowly.

“But I wanna... I wanna know why, proper why, not just... easy explanation why.” Armie says, driving them out of the residential streets and into an almost abandoned, ramshackle neighborhood tacked onto the back of a council estate.

“Mm.” Timmy agrees, like he’s making an easy promise — one he’s trying not to think about the consequences of.

“‘Cause it’s like...” Armie says, taking a moment to get his words right, “There’s more than just one way to tell the truth, and it’s not lying, it’s just a different kind of truth. Because being honest, that’s a vulnerable act, but then it depends on how vulnerable we want to be.”

Timmy nods.

“It’s like in photographs; you know?” Armie adds, “What I said to you... before the party... like a photograph is... it can never be a complete lie, because it’s evidence, not edited, not messed around with, it’s honest in its depiction, but you get photographs where you’re smiling in a room full of people you hate, and it’s not lie, it’s the truth, but there’s nothing vulnerable about it.”

“I think I’m quite scared of being vulnerable.” Timmy says.

“I think that’s ‘cause you’re human.” Armie tells him, smiling. “Guess what?” He adds, driving deeper into a dimly lit maze of abandoned buildings and overgrown trees. “So am I.”

“I wanna take more pictures together.” Timmy says. “Honest ones. But one of me and you together. Maybe one that isn’t so honest too.”

Armie laughs.

“A normal people photograph that I can keep to kid myself when this all makes me feel like I’m going mad.” Timmy sighs, and looks up at the stars.

Armie pulls into an empty parking lot, on a street where all the lamps bar one are knocked out. Timmy looks out of the front window, “Oh well done, Armie, this looks like a lovely place to get murdered.”

Armie laughs at him. “This isn’t the city, Timmy. This is a fucking sleepy, small suburban old people, middle class people town. The scariest thing you’re gonna find around here is a fucking fifteen year old.”

Timmy raises his eyebrows at him. “Have you seen a fifteen year old recently? They’re fucking terrifying.”

“Anyway.” Armie says, turning to face him. “What’s all this about feeling like you’re going mad?”

Timmy flushes, gesturing vaguely with his hands. “It’s just... you know... this is different... me and you.”

Armie nods.

“Can we just...” Timmy sighs. “You’re right. I’m hungry. Where are we actually going? ‘Cause I just want to eat something now.”

Armie rolls his eyes, smiling to himself, as he climbs out of the driver’s seat. He gets the paper bag from the back seat, and looks over to Timmy.

“You got the cigarettes?”

“Yeah.” Timmy rolls his eyes.

“Just checking.” Armie shakes his head, locking the car. “Carry this.” He says, pushing the paper bag into Timmy’s hands.

“Why?” Timmy rolls his eyes. “Because I’m navigating.” Armie says, glancing at their surroundings, before leading them out of the parking lot and towards what Timmy can only assume once used to be a block of council flats — now derelict and beyond repair with cracked cement, and vegetation growing around and up the walls.

“This looks fucking lovely, Armie, absolutely five star.” Timmy lets out a sigh.

“Sorry, I didn’t realize you were such a fucking princess.” Armie counters, knowing too well how to make Timmy blush. “I did mention taking you out to dinner—“

“Shut up, Armie.” Timmy sighs. “I didn’t realize it was either go out to a fancy restaurant or break into an abandoned council estate with fast food — you’re very all or nothing.”

“Yeah, well...” Armie cracks a smile. “You’ll see.”

Armie starts up the metal stairwell of the fire-escape, and Timmy looks up, following the staircase as it winds up into the night sky.

“Does this go onto the roof?” He asks. “Yeah,” Armie says, almost half-way up there already.

“Oh yeah, Armie, let’s go onto the roof of an abandoned, collapsing building— that seems like a fucking ace idea—“

“Stop whining, I’ve been up here like a thousand times before.”

“If I die...” Timmy trails off, looking up to the stars. He supposes suddenly, that to die right here, right now, wouldn’t be the worst way to end things.

“It’s an alright view, isn’t it?” Armie says, once Timmy’s finally nearing the top.

“Armie, I feel like I’m gonna collapse, never mind the building.” Timmy rolls his eyes, ignoring where Armie has stood by the railings, over-looking the horizon.

He sits down instead, on the cleanest bit of concrete he can find, and lights himself another cigarette.

“I swear I grew up here, you know?” Armie says suddenly, watching the stars. “Like this was where we’d all end up on weekends and that when we were like fourteen, fifteen, but this one summer, I swear we fucking lived here.”

“Mm?” Timmy nods, making a start on the fries. “Is that what you’re doing now? Just taking me everywhere you went as a kid? What are we now? Married or something?”

Armie turns back to face him, rolling his eyes. “Fine then, next time you get to pick.”

Timmy shrugs. “Whatever. These are gonna get cold, you know?” He says, watching Armie turn back to look out at the horizon.

“Yeah, I’m just...” He trails off, joining Timmy on the concrete. “Thinking, you know?” “Makes a change, doesn’t it?” Timmy strikes a grin, teasing him. “Yeah.” Armie rolls his eyes. “Definitely.” They’re silent for a while, just staring up at the stars, looking out at the world.

Timmy studies the horizon, and tries to make sense of the silhouetted etching of the cityscape in the distance. He longs for that kind of home, as this abandoned little council estate with Armie suddenly feels worlds away from everything he knows. He thinks about bars and clubs filled with smoke and aftershave, music too loud, drinks mixed too strong; he’d always been certain that that world was where he’d belong. He doesn’t think he’s so sure anymore, because the stars are shining like they’re just as alive as he is, and he can feel Armie’s warmth without even touching him.

This, he thinks, is what living really feels like.

“Remember when we first met...” Timmy says aloud, lighting himself a cigarette, with which to blanket his nerves.

Armie nods, grinning. “‘Of course. I remember seeing you for the first time, you know?”

“Mm?” Timmy raises his eyebrows. “And what did you think?”

“I thought, fuck, you look like trouble, I’d love to get to know you.” Armie laughs. “And you were. Trouble. So I wasn’t disappointed.”

Timmy rolls his eyes. “I thought, who the hell is this talking like... he knows me, you know?” He looks down. “But you were talking sense, and maybe you didn’t know me then, but you knew enough.”

“Yeah.” Armie nods. “I knew enough.”

Timmy watches the moon turn out from behind a cloud. The sky looks beautiful, so clean and bright — a sight unobtainable in the city. It makes this experience feel singular, much more so than the conversation.

“Tell me why I made you cry.” Armie says it then, finally, suddenly, and Timmy heaves in a great sigh and pushes his heart down into his stomach, just to keep it from jumping out of his throat.

“Because I was jealous, when you kissed her, maybe a bit more than jealous, not betrayed, it wasn’t so much your fault, really... I just felt... fucking stupid, like, everything I’d always tried to protect myself from happening was happening again. I felt like I was fucking seventeen again... you know the guy I told you about once? I felt like it was happening all over again.”

Armie is silent for a moment.

“That’s why I was crying, because I felt... everything I’d let myself ‘get used to’ with this, with you, everything that feels normal, because it is fucking normal, you know, trusting you, your mom who’s nice to me and doesn’t mind that you’re bi, your friends who don’t mind that you’re bi, that we’re queer, your friends that are nice to me, the band...” Timmy tugs out a sigh. “I felt like I was stupid to ever believe that was normal and that my life was ever just gonna be like that. I thought it was all just gonna go back to how it was before.”

“Timmy...” Armie reaches for his hand. “You, looking after yourself, treating yourself right, that’s not dependent on me, on me and you, and don’t ever let it, because hell, I’m gonna fuck up, we’re all gonna fuck up, ‘cause we’re human.”

“I sort of realize that now.” Timmy admits. “It was something Nick said to me, at the party, that him and Will weren’t just your friends, but my friends now too. And that’s true, I never... realized that until I was crying... in front of them, but that’s true.”

“Yeah.” Armie smiles. “Nick told me that if I ever make you cry like that again, he doesn’t care, he’s still gonna beat me.”

Timmy’s eyes widen. “I’m not gonna let him do that.”

“I’m not gonna make you cry.” Armie counters.

“I cry too easily.” Timmy shrugs. “I could cry right now, just because everything feels so strange, so impossible, so real, like everything before was just imaginary.”

“And why’s that do you think?” Armie asks him.

“‘Cause...” The words dry up in Timmy’s throat; three words that Timmy doesn’t know what to do with.

Armie raises his eyebrows.

“I don’t know.” Timmy decides in the end. “Things just feel different, here, with you. It’s like everything else just stops and disappears.”

Armie harbors a small smile, like he knows more of what Timmy’s thinking than he’d care to share. harbours flushes red and wants to tug and pull away at the truth until it disappears.

“I write about this, you know?” He says, softly, never looking at Armie, but at the stars. “You. All these places you take me to, all these fucking things you say to me. I put them in songs.”

“Mm?” Armie looks up, trying to catch his gaze.

“They’re honest songs.” Timmy says, “Like honest photographs, snapshots.”

Armie nods. “Can I hear them?”

Timmy nods. “Will wants me to show all of you them next time.” He looks down, flushing.

“Can I hear some of them first, though, when it’s just us?” He asks. “At yours, or something.”

Timmy snorts. “You want a private concert?”

“I want to know what goes on in your head before my best friends do.” Armie says the honest truth.

“Yeah.” Timmy sighs. “Me too. It’s just difficult, getting some of it out.”

“I don’t mind if it’s bad, some of it.” Armie adds. “Like, after the... party, and... I don’t mind if you’ve written songs about how much you hate me. I’m not gonna—“

“Opposite problem.” Timmy says, and gets to his feet, staring out at the horizon, looking for traces of the city, looking for threads that might lead him home.

“Opposite problem?” Armie repeats back to him. There’s something there in his tone, like he’s already figured it all out.

“Yeah.” Timmy says, staring up at the moon. “Can’t you figure that one out?”

“Yeah.” Armie says, after a moment, and Timmy resists the urge to turn back and look, to turn back and study him in meticulous, neurotic detail. “That’s quite flattering though, I don’t see what the problem is—“

“Armie.” Timmy turns, meeting his eyes this time. “The opposite problem is the problem, ‘cause it feels like it’s all gonna happen again, like when I was seventeen, and I’m scared, Armie, I’m fucking scared.”

Armie gets up and joins him. Their hands find each other, and suddenly Timmy thinks that the night sky doesn’t quite look so vast and impossible as it did before.

“I have the same problem.” Armie says, looking up. “I mean, not with the songs, obviously, but... with the feelings.”

“Yeah.” Timmy bites his lip. “I know.” He says, before he can really think about it. “You know?” Armie turns, face painted white with shock.

“Fuck.” Timmy attempts to make sense of his thoughts. “I...” He stammers. “I overheard you and your mom talking once— by accident, and...” Timmy struggles to get the words out, and so he says the only ones that come to mind, “It goes both ways, and she was right, because that’s been killing me for weeks and weeks—“

“That’s...” Armie frowns. “Timmy, that was... ages ago, have you just sat with that for?—“

“But you’ve just sat with what your mom said to you? For the same amount of time?” Timmy counters.

Armie shakes his head. “Sometimes I talk to my mom, and it turns out that you can’t hear us, you know?”

Timmy sighs. “When I heard that, that was when I started panicking again, that this was all... gonna be like before. That’s why I kept fucking other people, because I thought that those two things... me feeling how I feel about you, and me fucking other people, were mutually exclusive. They’re not, Armie, Jesus Christ, I can tell you now — they’re fucking not.”

“You can’t fuck away your feelings.” Armie says, and meets Timmy’s gaze. “You can’t kiss them away either.”

Timmy sighs.

“You know,” Armie says, “The same things with this panic and self-doubt that’s going on in your head, it’s going on in mine too. This... fear of vulnerability, and the need to protect myself, protect yourself, not from each other, but from ourselves. Because there’s part of me that thinks this is all going to disappear too.”

Timmy frowns at him.

“That you’re just gonna...” Armie trails off. “That I can’t let myself get close to you, because you’re not someone who lets people that gets close to them, that... I’m gonna make you uncomfortable, that I’m gonna scare you off, that this is all going to snap and disappear.”

“You’d have to do a lot to scare me off at this point.” Timmy says. “I mean, murdery looking abandoned building — I still let you take me here.” Timmy gestures, looking for another example. “I let you put your tongue in my asshole.”

Armie rolls his eyes. “To be fair, you loved that.” Timmy sighs, taking a drag of his cigarette, before offering it up to Armie. “I’m not gonna get scared off.” He says, and decides he’s gonna mean it. “I’m not gonna get bored, this is all... this is different, you can’t compare this to anything there was before, because it’s just... worlds away.”

Armie nods, passing the cigarette back to him. “The same for me.” He says the words again. “It goes both ways. Not gonna get scared, not gonna get bored, this is different. This is _something.”_ Armie says, and really puts some bite into the word.

Timmy inhales, and looks out at the horizon, at the world beyond the estate, rows of identical houses, a few intersecting streets at the center of town, and then the country drawing a dividing line between them and the city. He’s so far away from what he knows here, but he’s never felt more at home.

“Is it alright if I say it?” Timmy asks, looking over to Armie.

“What?” Armie freezes because he knows exactly what Timmy means.

“The opposite problem.” Timmy says. “Can I say it?”

“You want to?” Armie asks, taking the cigarette from his fingers.

“Yeah.” Timmy breathes out. “Do you? Do you want me to?”

“It doesn’t matter what I want,” Armie tells him, “When it’s your most honest, vulnerable truth.”

“Okay then.” Timmy takes back the cigarette, finishes, and stubs it out, throwing the butt out over the railing and down from the rooftop — just another thing abandoned in this place.

He turns to Armie and just looks at him for a moment. “It’s not fair when you’re expecting it.” He shakes his head. “Fucking pressure.”

“I love you.” Armie says before Timmy can get the chance, catching him off guard. Timmy’s eyes grow wide. “Fuck. Off.” He says. “You’re not allowed to do that, I was gonna—“

Armie leans forward and kisses him. At first, Timmy thinks he’s just gonna let him, but then Armie gets his hands in Timmy’s hair and around his waist, pulling him closer, until there’s no space between them at all, and then Timmy gets this breathless kind of feeling, like he never wants to let go of anything.

Armie pulls away and starts laughing, “‘Fuck off’ — I can’t believe I told you I _loved_ you, and you... fuck off...” He shakes his head.

“I was gonna say it first.” Timmy crosses his arms and tries his best to look angry with him; he doesn’t get very far. “I mean, technically, I wrote it first in a song.”

“Mm?” Armie nods. “You should play me that song.” “I should.” Timmy says. “Also, I wanna take pictures, of me and you, of... tonight...” “You should.” Armie nods. “We should go back to mine.” Timmy says suddenly. “Absolutely.”

* * *

“You’ve still not said it.” Armie says in the car, when they’re already half-way back to the city.

“Huh?” Timmy looks up; he’d gotten bored and started leafing through one of the various porn magazines Armie keeps in the glovebox. Armie notices what he’s doing and starts laughing at him.

“That you love me.” Armie reminds him.

“Yeah, it’s no fun, though, when you’re expecting it, and anyway — you fucking stole my chance.” Timmy sighs, and shoves the magazine back into the glovebox.

“And you know what people are meant to say back? When you say you love them — ‘I love you too’, and what did you say ‘fuck off?’” Armie shakes his head.

“That’s what you’re getting with me, though. You know that, right?” Timmy grins. “Fuck off, and ugly crying, and stupid decisions—“

“Not all that,” Armie interjects, “You’re funny, you’re beautiful, you’re—“ “Oh, fuck off, Armie.” Timmy sighs. “I think I’m gonna throw up if you start.” Armie snorts. “You love it really.” “Yeah.” Timmy supposes. “I do.”

“Are you gonna say it?” Armie asks, like he’s getting impatient. “Yeah.” Timmy nods, as if that should have been obvious. “Just... at the right moment.” “Didn’t realize you were such a romantic” Armie says rolling his eyes. “Says you, who wanted to take me on a dinner date.” Timmy shakes his head.

“What about that exactly makes you uncomfortable?” Armie asks, as they pass through the country and back into the city. Timmy stares out of the window, blinding himself in the showers of artificial light, trying to feel more at home.

“It’s such a... straight married couple thing to do, though, isn’t it?” Timmy sighs. “Like—“ “You don’t like marriage, I get it.” Armie rolls his eyes. “I was gonna say, I don’t like straight people.” Timmy laughs.

Armie shakes his head.

“That’s the thing, though. The problem,” Timmy trails off, “If that’s a straight people thing, then gay people things are just getting high in clubs and getting fucked in the club bathrooms, in motel rooms, drinking too much at the bar and going home sad and alone ‘cause you don’t have friends who want you for more than just sex.”

Armie’s eyes widen.

“That’s what it’s like, though, isn’t?” Timmy sighs. “There’s all these rumors about who I am, and yeah I’ve got a reputation, and yeah, maybe I’m not a saint, but I’m a product, I’m a product of this world, of this society. Where you can’t hold hands in the street, where we’re all terrified to go out and be visible in non-queer specific places, that’s the fuck why it’s a straight people thing, dinner dates, there’s no safe to be queer restaurant. Queer spaces are all clubs and bars, and it’s no fucking wonder we’re all fucked in the head or addicted to something. I mean we’re terrified, aren’t we? It’s lonely, it’s isolating, to be honest with ourselves, because it’s not safe, to be honest with everyone else.”

There’s a long moment of silence after Timmy speaks.

“You’re lucky.” Timmy tells him. “That you have friends you get it, and a mom who gets it, because so many people don’t.”

“You should write about this too.” Armie says. “About being queer, about being honest about it.” “Yeah,” Timmy rolls his eyes, “And who the fuck would want to listen to that?” 'Queer people.” Armie tells him. “People with fucking good music taste." ”No straight people, though.” Timmy laughs.

“And why are you thinking about making music for straight people, writing songs for straight people, when the rest of the world is engineered for straight people, and you have more than enough to say about that?”

“‘Cause I’m scared.” Timmy says. They’re nearing Timmy’s now, and everything feels almost cursedly familiar.

Armie shakes his head. “What was this where you got kicked out your old band because some asshole didn’t want someone like you on a magazine?”

Timmy nods.

“Then if that’s how straight people are gonna be in this industry, then... what I’m saying is, don’t find a different band, or find a different kind of businessman, hoping he’s got a shred more sympathy— find a different kind of fucking magazine.”

They pull up, outside of Timmy’s house, and Timmy sits there, just thinking for a moment.

“You’re dangerous, you know? I was wrong when I said you were boring, because you’re fucking dangerous.” Timmy says, pointing a finger accusatorially at Armie. “Because you always make me feel like I’m really worth something, and my ego really doesn’t need any more inflating.”

“There’s a difference between ego and self-confidence, isn’t there, though?” Armie arches his eyebrows. “I always thought with you, especially before I met you, that the ego was all a lack of self-confidence, overcompensating—“

“The ego was a defense mechanism. Is.” Timmy corrects him. “Because if there’s a whole world out there that wants to hate me on the basis of just who I am, then I feel like I might as well give them good reason to do it.”

“But that’s gonna change.” Armie says, “With time.”

“You think?” Timmy asks, genuinely curious. “‘Cause sometimes I’m not so sure. And sometimes I wonder how old I’m gonna have to be before I can just fucking be me.”

“You know how change happens?” Armie adds, leaning closer to him. “People get out there and start being honest, start speaking, stop letting people erase them.”

“I believe in you.” Armie says. “I believe in us.” Timmy returns and gets out of the car.

He hurries inside, and leaves Armie to catch up, to find him in his bedroom, rifling through his notebook of songs.

“Half of these are shit.” Timmy says, hearing Armie’s footsteps, but not looking over his shoulder. “Let me have a look— is it just lyrics, or...” He takes the notebook from Timmy’s hand.

“There’s some chords, chord patterns in some places, but it’s mostly...” Timmy gestures with his hands; he still can’t meet Armie’s gaze. “I just write, you know, when everything’s a mess, some of it’s not even lyrics, just straight from my brain, but I try and turn it into lyrics... fuck,” He turns, watching Armies’s face, “It feels like picking up a part of my soul and giving it to you, that notebook.”

“I like the little drawings.” Armie says with a smile, as if he hadn’t heard a word Timmy said. “What?” Timmy asks, eyes wide.

Armie holds up the book to point out where Timmy had scribbled out some doodles on the side of a page.

“What about the fucking songs, Armie...?” Timmy says, anxious, volatile, fizzling like a live-wire. He thinks Armie could touch him and get an electric shock.

“I’ve got to properly have a look first.” Armie says, “But I know you, of course they’re good. Play me something, though.”

“None of them are finished songs, though—“

“I’m not asking for a masterpiece.” Armie shakes his head and picks up Timmy’s guitar for him. “Play something.”

Armie hands him the guitar and the notebook and goes and sits on the end of Timmy’s bed. “What?” Timmy blushes. “Sit and play you a song I wrote about... you... that’s so—“ “Play me something else then—“

“Armie, everything I’ve written since I’ve met you, is about you in some capacity.” Timmy looks down and sighs, hooking his fingers around the neck of the guitar, and stretching his fingers out into a few chord shapes.

“Am I just that distracting?” Armie asks, teasingly.

“Yes.” Timmy says, like he’s genuinely frustrated. “But there’s... one about the first time we met, maybe more about the bar—“

“Just play it.” Armie tells him, and leans forward.

And Timmy does.

It’s this song that’s too honest, feeling both too intimate and too much like a stranger at the same time, it’s about the ‘shitty band’ playing, it’s about the backroom, it’s about the motel room, it’s about skin, it’s about lies, it’s about truths, it’s about how it started to feel the moment Timmy let Armie get his lines all blurred.

Armie doesn’t say anything when Timmy finishes, just gets up, and takes a photograph. Timmy comes out looking scared, and vulnerable, and honest, and Timmy starts to think that Armie has got a thing for vulnerability.

Timmy rolls his eyes. “Tell me it was fucking good then.” He says.

“It was fucking good.” Armie tells him, and sits back down on the end of the bed. “It was fucking insightful, really... I never knew how... it was... when we first met.”

“Mm?” Timmy frowns, putting his guitar down. He’s curious now, and wants to get close enough to Armie to tease the truth out of him.

“What was it like for you?” Timmy asks, standing between Armie’s legs, tilting Armie’s head back to meet his gaze.

“I thought...” Armie tells him, holding his breath. “This guy’s as insane as the rumors say, and —“

“Armie.” Timmy narrows his eyes.

“I thought you were spectacular, but that you were never going to let me get any closer.” Armie tells him the truth.

“And you were wrong.” Timmy sighs, cradling Armie’s cheek in his palm. 

Armie looks earnestly, trustingly, up at him. “So I came to your show, not to judge how well you could sing, like I said, but ‘cause I wanted to see you again.”

“Mm.” Timmy nods. “I couldn’t see you at first.” He admits, “And I got... scared you hadn’t come.” “You wanted me to come?” Armie’s eyebrows shoot up his forehead.

“I always wanted you, I just didn’t want to admit it.” Timmy sighs. “Didn’t want to let myself. Was trying to keep myself out of trouble.”

Armie snorts. “You’re no good at that.” “No,” Timmy agrees, moving his hand up to Armie’s hair, “I’m not good at that.”

“I keep you out of trouble, though.” Armie says, trailing his hand down from where it was resting around Timmy’s waist.

Timmy laughs, “That’s such a fucking lie.” Armie grins, looking up at him. “Come here.” He says, trying to pull Timmy down onto his lap.

Timmy shakes his head and doesn’t let him. “I told you, I wanted a picture of us. Preferably while we still have clothes on.”

Armie rolls his eyes. “Then get the camera, and come here.” He gestures back to his lap.

Timmy sighs, and picks the camera up from the desk, looking briefly to the now developed polaroid, the one Armie had taken of him with his guitar.

“I look dead scared in that,” He says, gesturing to the polaroid.

“Yeah,” Armie says, “How can you get more nervous playing a song to me in your bedroom, than playing it to a whole crowd on stage?”

“‘Cause I actually care about what you think.” Timmy says and lays back onto the bed. “Come here.” He says, almost mimicking Armie’s tone, as he pats the bed next to him.

Armie rolls his eyes and lays back beside him, looking up at the camera Timmy’s almost haphazardly holding above his head.

Armie shakes his head, and gets his arm around Timmy’s shoulders, pulling him closer. “This is gonna turn out like shit.” He tells him, “Look how much your hands are shaking.”

Timmy rolls his eyes. “Fine. You take it.”

And Armie does, before Timmy can take his eyes off him. He sits up, setting the polaroid and camera down on the bedside table, before turning back to Timmy.

“Still want me to fucking sit on your lap?” Timmy asks, rolling his eyes, as they lay there, facing one another.

“I had a dream, once, you know?” Armie says, voice growing soft, playing with buttoning and unbuttoning Timmy’s shirt.

“What?” Timmy asks, rolling his eyes. “Where I sat on your lap and you came instantly—“ Armie sighs. “You should let me eat you out again.” He says. “You should tell me about this dream.” Timmy counters. “Well, you should stop trying to pretend like you’re not interested.” Armie meets his gaze. “Maybe I’m not.” Timmy says. “You’ve gotta tell me what kind of dream it was.”

“It was about you.” Armie says, and gets his fingers pulled tight in Timmy’s hair.

“You were playing a show, up on stage,” Armie continues, voice getting soft and slow, like he’s trying to purposefully get Timmy impatient. “And you were... you wanted it, and I was in the crowd, touching myself, looking straight at you, watching you, and you looked right back at me. And that was how it was for a few minutes, while you finished the song, but then you called me up on stage and you had me fuck you right where everybody could see. You begged for it.”

Timmy goes completely silent for a moment.

“God, you’re a fucking freak,” He says, rolling his eyes at Armie.

Armie gets a hand down Timmy’s pants. “I can feel you getting hard, so shut the fuck up.”

Timmy whines, shivering against Armie’s touch.

“Let me eat you out.” Armie says again, pulling Timmy’s head back by the hair, and forcing him to meet his gaze.

“You’re not done yet.” Timmy tells him. “With the story. What happened when you woke up?”

Armie sighs, rolling his eyes. “What do you think? I was hard, so I got myself off.”

“Thinking about me?” Timmy asks, eyes blown wide and obscene, like he’s trying to make Armie want him more than he already does.

“Always thinking about you.” Armie tells him. “Fuck, I love thinking about you when I get off.”

Timmy whines. Armie’s hand is still around him, and starting to apply pressure. “Do you think about me?”

“Yeah.” Timmy breathes out, trying to curl up into himself, but Armie is forcing his head up, his eyes wide.

“Good.” Armie tells him and pulls away, like he’s leaning back to admire the look he’s put in Timmy’s eyes. “Turn over.”

Timmy obliges. He can feel something twisting deep in his stomach already — maybe it’s just the weight of Armie’s gaze on him.

Armie places a hand to his hip, before getting his fingertips under the waistband of Timmy’s already unbuttoned jeans, and pulling them down. Timmy squirms under his touch — cold on bare skin.

Armie gets his fingers wet and starts slowly, still Timmy feels like Armie is pulling him apart. The problem is that this time, he wants to let him.

Timmy lets out a groan as Armie’s fingers push slowly back against him. “Yeah?” Armie teases. “You like that?”

Timmy sighs, turning his head to the side, to try and meet Armie’s gaze, but Armie seems to want to push his face into the pillow, with every movement of his fingertips.

“Armie—“ He protests and squirms for air. Eventually, Armie relents.

He holds his gaze and pushes his fingers in deeper, curling them, watching Timmy get shivers. Timmy thinks Armie is waiting for him to make another sound, something obscene, something he can get off on, but Timmy doesn’t want to give that to him.

“More.” Timmy demands, like he really is bratty and fucking spoilt.

Armie arches his eyebrows, before removing his fingers completely, and spreading Timmy open with his hands. Timmy flushes at the thought that Armie is just looking inside him like that; it feels so strange, yet so vulnerable, so intimate.

“You’re so pretty.” Armie says, before spitting into his hole. Timmy groans like he wants to bury his face in the mattress and disappear forever, but he’s got full body shivers, and Armie won’t give him the chance.

“Pretty? Really—“ Timmy says, like he wants to try and laugh at him, but Armie cuts him off, getting his tongue inside him with no warning, and Timmy’s words choke off into a moan.

Armie pulls back for just a second. “Tell me how much you love it. Beg for it,” He says, squeezing Timmy’s ass, “Or I’ll stop.”

“Armie...” Timmy whines, sounding like he’s about to argue. Armie slaps his hand against Timmy’s ass, only gently, teasingly, like he’s testing the waters.

Timmy shuts up. “Be good.” Armie says, and presses his tongue back right where Timmy needs it.

Timmy, red-cheeked and desperate, lets out another whine, his eyes blowing wide, before he realizes what Armie has asked him to do, and he feels the sting enough to know that he means it.

“I...” Timmy stammers, trying to catch his breath. “It’s... yeah... it’s good, Armie... Armie...” He says his name desperately when he feels Armie alleviating the pressure he needs.

“Yeah?” Armie says, pulling away. Timmy can hear the smirk in his voice. “I need it.” Timmy says. “Give it to me.” “Please?” Armie asks, and Timmy feels like he wants to kill him. “Please.” Timmy sighs. “Please, Armie, please—“

Armie doesn’t take much more persuading; he gets Timmy spread wide around his mouth, and he pushes in deep. Timmy can feel every motion, every touch, every piece of him everywhere, trailing up his spine from his guts. He’s growing harder and harder between his legs; he wants Armie to touch him there so badly, but he’s not sure that he’s going to get his way, even if he asks nicely about it.

“I need to...” Timmy whines, trying to push back against Armie’s touch. “I need...”

Armie squeezes his hip, tight enough to leave bruises, and Timmy wants to collapse in on himself, but Armie doesn’t let his heart rate settle; Armie wants to know him, to claim him from the inside out, and Timmy, for the moment, just wants to breathe.

“Please...” Timmy gasps, reaching for Armie’s hand, pealing it back where it’s resting on his hip, and putting it around himself. But Armie squeezes tight when Timmy thinks he was going to let go, and he comes like that, from the pressure at both ends, drawn up and out through him.

Timmy shudders until he goes still and needy, trying to get Armie’s hands off him, because suddenly everything is way too much. The problem is, of course, that Armie always wants to touch.

“You good?” He asks, cupping his ass in a way that makes Timmy want to curl up inside himself and disappear.

“Yeah...” Timmy chokes out, trying to breathe. “But stop touching me, or I’m going to fucking die —“

Armie laughs. He presses himself, hard, against Timmy’s ass. “No.” Timmy says through a whine, turning onto his front. Armie rolls his eyes. “It’s not my fault you always come first.”

Timmy sighs at him, content just to stare up at the ceiling for a moment. He’s aware, of course, that Armie is still hard, and that Armie probably thinks that’s his business, but Timmy just wants a minute.

“You’re not fucking me with that.” He says, “Not right now.” “Shame.” Armie sighs, “When I got you all wet—“ _”Armie.”_ Timmy sits up. “You can have my mouth or you can have nothing—“ “Oh.” Armie smirks. “I love your mouth.” “Yeah,” Timmy rolls his eyes, “I thought you do.”

It doesn’t take long, with Armie’s hands in Timmy’s hair, and Timmy’s fingernails leaving crescent moon shapes against Armie’s hip, but Armie still looks like he’s losing his mind when he comes, and Timmy thinks that’s almost something to feel proud of.

“You’re such a fucking weirdo.” Timmy says, getting up to get himself cleaned up. He wanders into the bathroom, and just leaves Armie there, waiting until he returns.

He returns with a towel and some tissues, throwing them all vaguely at Armie, after drying himself off, and reaching for his blouse. He throws it over his shoulders and makes an attempt to do up a few of the buttons, before getting himself a cigarette, and sitting in front of the mirror with a makeup wipe.

“Why am I a weirdo?” Armie asks, like it’s been bothering him for the past few minutes.

“That dream,” Timmy says, grinning to himself, “Oh and ‘I begged you to fuck me while everybody watched’, fuck off, Armie. And then making me beg for it now, Jesus Christ, someone’s got issues.”

“Oh, did you miss the part where I asked you to do it, and you did?” Armie asks, cleaning himself up, before getting up for a cigarette. “‘Cause it sounded a lot like you loved it to me.”

“Sounded a lot more like my boyfriend’s a fucking freak, but for some reason I just wanna make him happy, to me.” Timmy says, trying to clean the dark from his eyes.

Armie goes silent for a minute, while Timmy realizes what he’s said. “Oh, fuck.” He looks up into the mirror and meets Armie’s reflection. Armie smirks. “Guess I’m your boyfriend now, then.”

“Armie—“

“You’re the one that said it.” Armie tells him.

“I mean well...” Timmy flushes, trailing off. “What are we?”

“I’m your boyfriend, I guess.” Armie says, “Fuck yeah, I’m your boyfriend.”

“Yeah?” Timmy says, finishing with his face. “You’re making it sound like it’s an achievement. I’m sure it’s not actually that exciting.”

“Well...” Armie says, taking a drag of his cigarette. “I mean, it’s you, Timmy ‘I’m Fucking Terrified Of Commitment And Emotional Vulnerability’ Chalamet. You can’t act like that doesn’t mean anything.”

Timmy nods, letting his hair down. “I’m not saying it doesn’t, I’m just... don’t get disappointed.”

He sighs.

“Disappointed?” Armie sighs. “Oh, come on, I told you I loved you and you told me to fuck off — there’s nothing that can surprise me now.”

Timmy gets up, bare-faced, hair in a mess. “I love you.” He says to Armie sat on the end of his bed, still completely naked, smoking a cigarette.

“Fucking finally—“

“Oh, you’re not allowed to say that.” Timmy sighs, “That’s as bad as fuck off.”

Armie shrugs. “It’s only fair then, isn’t it?”

Timmy rolls his eyes and joins Armie on the end of the bed. “I love you.” He says it again, kissing his cheek.

Armie flushes red, “I love you too, you idiot.”


	12. XII.

They play the songs. Timmy puts himself into the music until he imagines the world as nothing beyond himself. Songs about Armie, songs about before, songs about hating yourself, songs about falling in love, songs about wanting to take love as a feeling and claw it right out of your body. They play the songs, they work on the songs, and no one says a word like Timmy had thought they would.

Will works out this really cool riff and Timmy feels like everything he’s doing is just impossible. He wasn’t supposed to grow up like this — to be normal, to be happy, to have any kind of stability, but here they are.

Here they are, playing songs, getting a bit pissed in Will’s garage. Armie has got his arm hooked around Timmy’s shoulders, and no one cares. It’s not that even no one cares at all, but that no one cares in a bad way.

Both Will and Nick care, but they care that they’ve finally got their shit together, they care in the way Timmy almost thought was impossible. They care in a way that feels genuine, heartwarming, he feels safe, he feels happy, with Armie’s arm around him in Will’s garage. He feels like he’s finally made a home for himself in this place.

They haven’t yet been booked for this little festival that Will’s so obsessed with, but Will’s hopeful, and the rest of the room is all good feeling. It gets to around eight, and Nick starts talking about going to some girl’s party, but part of Timmy just wants to go home and sleep.

Armie can read Timmy and Nick both easily, so he tries to mediate, to compromise, to ensure that both everyone and no one is really happy. “We’ll go for a bit.” He says, reaching his fingers up into Timmy’s hair.

Timmy just _looks_ at him.

“It’s not gonna be so bad.” Armie tells him, smiling. “I mean you can just get smashed if you want, I’m driving—“

“Yeah, Armie, drinking instead of dealing with reality, that’s always such a great solution.” Timmy sighs and gets up.

He looks at Nick directly, like he’s letting him know he blames him for anything and everything that may come of this. Nick has been looking more and more like he wants to talk more and more to Timmy recently, but Timmy hasn’t let him get close.

Timmy takes liberty in stealing a bottle of vodka from Will’s kitchen. He stuffs it inside Armie’s jacket and tries to feign innocence. Armie looks at him like he wants to scream at him, but it all comes out soft.

They’re fucked, Timmy thinks. The both of them — they’ve gone all soft.

Still, Timmy gives Armie a cigarette, to say sorry, to say thank you, when they’re walking across town to this girl’s party, when Will and Nick are engaged in conversation a few meters ahead of them, and they’re stuck together, trying and failing to light a cigarette with hands shaking from the cold.

“Do you think we’re gonna play that festival thing?” Timmy asks, once he’s confident that Will’s out of earshot.

Armie shrugs. “I mean, I guess, we’re not half bad, and they just want bands, it’s not like... fucking Glastonbury.”

“Yeah.” Timmy laughs. “Will’ll get it in his head that we can play Glastonbury next. No fucking chance.”

“You never know.” Armie shrugs.

“Sometimes you talk, you know?” Timmy says. “Like I swear you’re being paid to believe in me.”

Armie laughs. “You never know, maybe I am—“

“Oh, fuck off, Armie.” Timmy sighs, and Armie starts laughing loudly enough to get Will and Nick to turn around for a moment.

“You know,” Timmy says, lowering his voice to a whisper, “If you think of some excuse to get us to leave quickly, then I’ll let you fuck me. I’ll let you do whatever the fuck weird shit you want.”

Armie snorts.

“Not...” He trails off. “Actually, not super weird, because...” He frowns at Armie. “You’re a bit of a weirdo. But... sorta weird, we’ll discuss it, depending on how quick we get out of there.”

“Don’t you want to be here with our friends, spending quality time together?” Armie teases him.

“Yeah, but we’ve been stuck in the same room all day, I wanna... I don’t know have a cuddle and smoke some weed.”

Armie laughs. “Aren’t you just such a fucking romantic?” “Armie—“

“Anyway...” Armie says, getting an arm around Timmy’s waist. “You be good, you be nice, and I’ll sort something out? How about that?”

Timmy rolls his eyes. “Maybe.”

They get inside and Timmy is quick to realize that he has no desire for being good or nice at all. The party’s smaller than the last one, but twice as loud, and Armie uses that as an excuse to keep his arm tightly around Timmy’s waist as they attempt to navigate the crowds.

They lose Nick and Will within the space of the first three minutes and Timmy has to pretend to look disappointed. Armie knows him better than to buy it, and just rolls his eyes at him and drags him outside.

On the back porch, Timmy thinks, at least they can breathe, but then he’s thinking cigarettes before anything else, while Armie is stood, just looking up at the moon.

“It’s the thought that counts,” Armie says vaguely, “Us coming along with them, you know?”

“Yeah,” Timmy says, lighting his cigarette, “So since we’ve all thought about it loads now, can’t we just go home?”

Armie shakes his head and laughs at him. “We’ll stay like twenty minutes more.” “Mm.” Timmy rolls his eyes. “Fine.”

He tears his gaze away from Armie, looking out across the garden, illuminated in a wash of golden light from the house, when he stumbles across something wrong. Something that seems like a rip, a tear, a mistake in the fabric of the universe.

Timmy freezes over. Eyes locked. He can feel Armie looking at him in confusion, but it’s nothing like the way _he’s_ looking at him; from across the garden, those eyes feel like searchlight beams, and Timmy’s never felt so exposed.

“Timmy?” He says his name, without the bitterness Timmy expected to hear. Timmy’s silent. It’s not that he doesn’t want to speak, it’s that he can’t.

“What’s going on?” Armie asks him, putting his arm back around Timmy’s waist, and pulling him closer. Armie’s touch seems to reignite some kind of sense in him, and Timmy looks on at the situation for what it is.

“That’s Ansel.” He says, loud enough so that they can both hear him. “From your old band?” Armie asks, standing up a little straighter. “Yeah.”

Timmy looks at Ansel like he’s willing him to leave, to just disappear back into the party, or the town, or wherever the hell he came from, because truthfully Timmy doesn’t know what he’s doing at a relatively small party in a relatively small town. Though he’s not sure that it matters much now.

Ansel steps up onto the porch, like he’s making a bid for the backdoor, to slip back into the house, as if none of this had ever happened, but he stops, standing still, properly bathed in light, and Timmy thinks that for the first time, he can see him for what he is.

“You look pretty tonight.” Ansel tells him. Timmy freezes, and Armie’s arm curls tighter around his waist. Ansel’ gaze follow it. “I’m Armie.” He adds, pinning down Ansel’ gaze.

Ansel shrugs. “Doesn’t matter what your name is. You know that’s not going to last, that? Whatever you’re deluded enough to think it is.” He points at the two of them. “He’s a slut, and he doesn’t just want it like that, he needs it like that. So whatever you think you’re happy with here, for him, it’s never gonna be enough.”

Timmy is frozen, silent, and Armie doesn’t quite know how to respond.

“Like, I said, Timmy, you look pretty tonight.” He says it like he’s teasing, like he’s deliberately trying to rip and tear them to pieces. “And I know you always wanted me. So bad. So, so bad.”

Timmy chokes out a sigh, looking down.

“You look pretty tonight.” Ansel says again, “But it’s a shame, ‘cause we both know I’d never go anywhere near you. Not when I know where you’ve been.”

Timmy feels himself deflating in Armie’s arms.

“Armie, was it?” Ansel looks up, “Maybe you know, you should find out —where’s he been and who he’s been there with. Sit him down and make him tell you. I’m sure he’d like that, I mean for someone so bratty, he sure does love being told what to do.”

“Why?” Armie looks up, meeting Ansel’ eyes with a strange kind of vengeance. “Because for someone who’s so sure you’d ‘never touch him’, sounds an awful lot like you really wanted to get close.”

Ansel laughs. “I’m straight, but whatever, cute.”

“Like that matters, like you don’t know the amount of straight guys who want to get all over him.” Armie looks briefly to Timmy, before staring at Ansel more directly.

“Yeah, but I’m not...” He laughs again. “God, I’m not desperate enough to want that.”

“That?” Armie asks. “He has a name, don’t act like you don’t know it. Because you do, and you know him, and it all sounds so much like you’re overcompensating for something, I mean what the fuck did you want to achieve, coming over and telling him he looks pretty? Like he doesn’t know that, like he fucking needs you to tell him, like you don’t know that as well. The only thing that mattered in that was you saying _you_ think he’s pretty. Strange thing to say when you’re straight about a guy, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, calm down, whatever, I’m not gonna fuck your boyfriend.” Ansel rolls his eyes, trying to perfect dismissive, but missing by a long shot.

“You want to.” Timmy says suddenly, like a switch flicking in his brain. “Oh my god, you want to.” He laughs.

Ansel freezes.

“Yeah,” Armie smirks, “He does.”

“I have a girlfriend.” Ansel says, standing his ground.

“And I have a boyfriend,” Timmy says, holding onto Armie a little tighter, “But it’s fucking satisfying to know.”

“What? That I want you?” Ansel arches his eyebrows, he spares a quick looking to Armie, almost like he’s testing the waters, “Sounds an awful lot like you want me the most.”

“No.” Timmy laughs, “It’s fucking satisfying to know that finally someone gets to deny you something you really fucking want. You can’t have me, Ansel, you can’t. Maybe the whole city’s had me, but not you. Not now, not ever. You can’t.”

Ansel shakes his head. “You don’t know how I’d give it to you.”

“What?” Timmy frowns. “While you’re thinking about your girlfriend?”

“Saoirse, doesn’t have to come into it—“

“Saoirse?” Timmy’s eyes widen. “You’re still... she didn’t get rid of you yet?”

“Seems not.” He smirks.

“I’m gonna tell her everything you’ve just said, you know?” Timmy says.

“And she’ll believe you? You think?”

“Yeah,” Timmy says, maybe a little too confidently. “Because she’s not _that_ stupid. She’s fucking seen it with her own eyes, you and all the shit you pulled just because you wanted me.”

“It doesn’t matter if she does, anyway.” Timmy says. “I know what I know is the truth, and for you, it’s all gonna come out some day.”

Ansel chews on a frown. He looks up to Armie. “Would you let me?”

“Would I let you what?” Armie asks, his voice growing deeper.

“Have him.” He says, like Timmy isn’t even there. “If I wanted that.”

“No.” Armie says, and means it. “Because he doesn’t want that. Because he says he doesn’t want you anywhere near him. So have a nice life... Ansel, was it, alright?”

Ansel snorts, shaking his head. “When you and him are over, you know? You can come find me, just to hear me say I told you so.”

“I’m good, thanks.” Armie says, watching Ansel traipse back inside.

“Fucking hell, he’s a dick, isn’t he?”

“Yeah.” Timmy sighs.

“A dick with like... some real fucking issues with his sexuality.” Armie frowns.

“Yeah.” Timmy stubs out his cigarette. “Can we go home now or do you wanna stick around and find more trouble?”

“Thought you liked trouble.” Armie says, teasing him. “Nah,” Timmy sighs, “Not anymore.” “Mine or yours then?” Armie asks, stubbing out his cigarette. Timmy thinks for a moment. “Yours.”

They don’t tell Will and Nick they’re leaving, or that they’ve already left, they’re just bargaining on the party being busy enough, and at risk of getting shut down soon enough for them not to notice. Timmy has a lot on his mind in the passenger seat, but still, he doesn’t talk much. Armie pretends like he’s concentrating on driving, but Timmy knows he’s not.

“I remember he pulled Saoirse’s hair... it was like physical... that last night... the last show, before they kicked me out.” Timmy says suddenly, not fully conscious that he’s translated his thoughts aloud.

“Fucking hell.” Armie widens his eyes.

“‘Cause we were all joking around backstage, and she said something to him about him fancying me, and he just fucking snapped?” Timmy sighs. “It was kind of terrifying. And I think that’s why he really kicked me out, you know? But... him kicking me out was probably the best thing that ever happened, ‘cause I was... I was too scared to leave myself.”

Armie looks to him, like he’s really trying hard to think of something heartfelt to say, but he just can’t find the right words.

“‘Cause I mean, yeah we’re skipping this party now, but I love you guys, I really, I... appreciate... you know? And... I hope Nick and Will know that, and—“

“They do.” Armie tells him. “Don’t worry, they do.” Timmy smiles. “I’m just glad Nick doesn’t hate me anymore.” “He never hated you.” Armie insists. “He’s just a bit protective.” “Yeah, but I’m still glad he doesn’t hate me anymore.” “Yeah,” Armie sighs, “Me too.”

They pull up outside of Armie’s house, but Timmy wants to sit in the car a little longer and smoke a cigarette, because he knows Armie’s family are home; he can see cars in the driveway, and silhouettes in the living room, and he gets all scared suddenly.

Armie watches Timmy light his cigarette, before looking back up to the house. “My mom loves you, you know? I don’t know why you’re nervous.”

“I’m nervous ‘cause I care.” Timmy says. “‘Cause I ended up caring way more than I bargained for, and it feels a little like I’m drowning at times, but then sometimes, you hit the balance just right and I’m fucking floating, not just treading water.”

Armie looks like he doesn’t quite know what to really say to that, so he just keeps talking. “My mom talks about you all the time. Wants me to bring you over more.”

“Why don’t you tell me that?” Timmy laughs, blushing. “‘Cause I thought it might freak you out.” Armie admits, resting his head against the steering wheel.

“You freak me out enough.” Timmy snorts. “I’ve seen everything, I’ve heard everything, you can’t faze me anymore, Armie Hammer, and good luck trying.”

Armie sighs. “I love you.” He says, and really fucking sounds like he means it.

“I know.” Timmy smiles, taking a drag of his cigarette. “And I know your mom loves me and all from the sound of it.”

“She thinks you’re sweet, you know?” Armie says. “Proper polite, and I’m like, that’s such bullshit, but—“

“I am sweet!” Timmy protests.

“Yeah?” Armie raises his eyebrows. “You’re fucking terrible.”

Timmy can’t stop himself giggling. “I’m fucking terrible.” He says.

“Yeah.” Armie agrees. “But she’s right, you’re fucking sweet too.”

Timmy finishes his cigarette, making a scene out of stubbing it out, just to hide the way he’s blushing.

“Are we gonna go inside now?”

Timmy looks up to the house, tall and thin, with the lights on in the living room. He thinks — ‘this doesn’t scare me anymore’.

“Yeah.”

Armie’s mom is overly affectionate, and Timmy’s pretending that it bothers him much more than it actually does; he thinks that Armie can see through him, but it doesn’t matter much, because he doesn’t lose sleep anymore, worrying about what he thinks.

She insists on making him tea, and trying to force a biscuit on him, because she keeps saying that he’s too skinny, and Armie is trying to hide his smile into his sleeve, but Timmy can tell that he’s barely suppressing laughter.

Armie only leaves for the bathroom for all of two minutes, though Timmy secretly suspects that he’s leaving to calm his laughter, and yet his mom seems to conduct a full interrogation in his absence.

“He’s treating you right?” She asks, the warmth in her eyes fading to an impatient pressure.

“Yeah.” Timmy flushes. “And you’re not just saying that because I’m his mom?” She arches his eyebrows.

“No.” Timmy smiles. He looks down into his tea, “He treats me too good, sometimes, I think. There’s never been anybody like him before.”

She stops for a moment. “I’d say he’s pretty individual, but not necessarily so positively.” Her face eases up into a smile.

“He’s...” Timmy pauses for a second. He thinks of a thousand things he could say, but none of them quite fit right, so he thinks for a moment more, and says the hardest thing that comes to mind, hoping only that it’ll mean the most. “I love him.”

That catches her a little off-guard. “I love him, and I really mean that.” He says, burying his face behind his tea mug. “Have you told him?” She asks.

Timmy nods, setting his mug back down. “Yeah, and he’s told me... And I just feel... content, safe, like everything’s still, calm, you know? I don’t think I’ve had that before, in my entire life. I’ve always been living desperately needing something that I couldn’t quite get, and yeah, I still want things, ‘cause that’s a human thing, but... like all the background noise and panic in my brain, like someone’s left the TV on, it’s all just turned into static, white noise. It doesn’t bother me anymore.”

She’s quiet long enough after that for Armie to return, and Timmy says everything he’d said aloud all over again in his eyes.

Armie looks between Timmy and his mother, like he’s trying to pull out everything said between them, but it just won’t give. He turns to Timmy, “Are we going upstairs yet?”

Timmy sets his mug down and smiles. “Yeah, I think I’m ready.”

Timmy’s in bed, naked but feeling fully clothed, smoking into an ashtray set precariously out onto the duvet. Armie is across the room, trying to find the weed he’d stashed somewhere in at the back of one of his drawers.

Though Timmy’s not certain that he’s all that bothered about getting high anymore. Part of him just wants to go to sleep with Armie next to him, maybe it’s less about the buzz, less about the high, and more about the comedown. When he’s not sure what everything means, but he sees it slowly taking shape, and it all looks perfect.

Armie finds the weed in the end, and climbs into bed beside him. Timmy curls up into his side and stops thinking about what the world might some day think of him. He is himself, his own person, and unafraid with it.

He clicks Armie’s lighter between his fingertips. It’s like starting little fires, but learning how not to fear the blast. It’s about calling the world an inferno, but feeling fireproof.

Armie kisses his neck, because he sees that Timmy isn’t paying attention, and he wants to make him blush.

Timmy looks up at him and sighs. “I still think about when I first saw you.” “Mm?” Armie says.

“I thought you were ridiculous, so fucking arrogant, but you were just sure of yourself, and I was jealous, because I wasn’t.” Timmy says. “Thank you. For proving me wrong, for showing me that I can be better, that what I had wasn’t all there is.”

Armie kisses him again. “What’s got you this soppy?”

Timmy smiles. “Let’s say it’s the weed.”

“Yeah.” Armie grins, teasing. “Let’s say it’s the weed.”

Timmy falls asleep like that, in bed beside him. He’s dreaming, for the first time, not of elsewhere, not of something else, but of what happens next.

* * *

The sunset hangs over the sky like an omen — the sky streaked in oranges and violets, and Timmy feels like he’s born to be there, to burn out in the reverb, in the bass of song. There is emotion in abundance, love and hate in every breath, Timmy wants to live and die here all at once.

He tells Armie this, while they’re waiting to play, but Armie tells him that he thinks it’s just the weed. The whole place is pungent with it, and Timmy’s not complaining, though it seems to have yet calmed his anxieties. It’s a strange feeling — all of this, caring quite so much about something. There’s a part of him, speaking only in rationality, that tells him this is just a festival, but he sees this as more than that, within himself.

He sees this as more than that, when he walks around with Armie, holding hands, clinging to his waist, because done up trying to look like a rockstar, Timmy’s sure that he can pass for a girl in the lowlight of the late afternoon. There’s also a part of him that doesn’t so much care anymore, but they walk around and see some other bands, most of which are shit, and Timmy says that, while Armie tells him to be nice, even though they can’t hear him.

They head off a little way from everything else, where the field fades out to just trees, to try and find somewhere dry and cleanish to sit and have a smoke and make out or something. Timmy finds that the world barely allows him a moment’s peace, before there’s laughter, before there’s silhouettes, stumbling down from out of the tree-line, and faces that he recognizes.

She stops dead before he does. “Timmy?”

He can feel Armie’s eyes on him, questioning, desperately trying to join the dots together, but Timmy’s eyes are all on her.

“Saoirse?” He stumbles to his feet. “Hey...”

She’s with a girl who Timmy doesn’t recognize, but she has a nice enough face, blonde hair, and pretty features.

“Hey.” She sighs. “Ansel told me he saw you a few weeks ago at a party, and I just wanna— He said he didn’t say anything, but I don’t believe that—“

“It’s fine.” Timmy smiles at her, and it all feels warm and succinct like a promise. “I’m pretty sure he definitely tried to talk me into letting him fuck me, though, so I don’t know maybe you want to know that—“

She shakes her head. “I’m not with him anymore.”

“Finally.” He sighs, realizing he’s come off a little insensitive only once it’s too late.

Saoirse just laughs. “Yeah. He’s playing here though, the band...”

“And you’re not here for him?” Timmy frowns.

“No.” She laughs. “I’m here for me.”

Timmy smiles, before really thinking about the implication of his old band, being here, being here without him.

“Are your band playing? I’ll come see your set.” She offers, looking to her friend who nods. “Yeah, we’re on in...” Timmy looks back to Armie. “Armie, when are we on?”

“Like forty five minutes?” Armie shrugs. “We need to get back to be fair. Will’s probably panicking looking for us, like we’ve run off or something.”

Timmy laughs. When he turns back to Saoirse, her face is painted with a grin.

“That’s Armie, is it?” She asks, looking past Timmy to him. Timmy flushes, remembering a phone call he made once. “Yeah.”

Armie gets to his feet, looking between the two of them. “What have you been saying about me?” He asks Timmy, teasingly.

“Good things.” Saoirse says, smiling.

“Yeah.” Timmy sighs. “Good things.”

“We’ll catch your set, yeah?” Saoirse says, and disappears with her friend back into the crowds.

Timmy just stands there for a moment, finishing his cigarette. Armie gets an arm around his shoulders, and pulls him close.

“Does it freak you out?” He asks. “Him being here? Ansel?”

Timmy shakes his head. “A bit, but I wanna see a bit of their set later though. I wanna see who’s this singer, who they think they can replace me with.”

Armie laughs, rolling his eyes. “But we should get back before Will starts having a panic attack, though.”

Timmy sighs and nods, “Yeah.”

He thinks for a moment. “It doesn’t matter, though, what they’ve done and if they’ve replaced me, because... I proved him wrong in a sense. We proved him wrong. We got here. We’re at this festival, this shitty little festival, but yeah, it’s a start, and I look how I wanna look, and I sing the songs that I wanna sing, and I’m allowed to do that.”

Armie nods.

“I don’t care about the fucking magazine, I care about the feeling. I care about getting on stage and making this all mean something.” He sighs.

“You don’t have to make this mean something.” Armie tells him. “It already does.”

“I want to make it mean more though.” Timmy says, “I want this all to feel like its enough. I want to be happy. I want to be content. I know that sounds fucking impossible, but I really feel like I’m getting there.”

Armie kisses him quickly, less with the act, and more in the afterglow.

Timmy starts like he wants to say something impossible, but Armie is quick to put a stop to him. “We need to get back.” He says, taking on the voice of reason.

And Timmy smiles, because he knows that he’s right, and he knows that Armie always just wants the best for him.

They get on stage and the first thing Timmy does is look out at the sky, and catch sight of the slender ghost of a crescent moon, fighting through a steadily darkening blue hue. He sees the moon and think it’s the very same moon that it’s always been, and he questions why he’s ever been afraid of changing.

Then he looks out at the crowd and says, “This is a song about the first time I met someone who changed everything.”

He closes his eyes, and as the music starts, he’s back in that bar called Europa, going back to a motel room with a stranger who wants nothing more than to know him. That was the first time.

Timmy takes a sharp inhale and starts to sing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright. That's the end. I hope you loved this as much as I do. 
> 
> If you got to this point, here is the direct link to the original work: 
> 
> https://archiveofourown.org/works/16557278
> 
> PLEASE. Go and leave your kudos, comments, and love to the writer. If you haven't checked her out yet, and you are wondering who the original characters are (though the name slipped more than a couple of times over here. hehe sorry for that) They are George Daniel and Matty Healy from the 1975. 
> 
> Thanks for sticking around.


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